


For I Do Not Fear The Dark

by englishbutter



Series: Luminance [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies), Østenfor sol og vestenfor måne | East of the Sun and West of the Moon
Genre: Alternate Universe - East of the Sun and West of the Moon Fusion, F/M, Jötunn Loki, Language of Flowers, POV First Person, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-10
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-20 03:08:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 110,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2412731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/englishbutter/pseuds/englishbutter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The winter has been one of the harshest in living memory, and Sigyn knows that not all of her family will live through it. So when a blue-skinned and red-eyed monster comes in the dead of night with an offer beyond her wildest imagination, Sigyn has no choice but accept if her family is to survive. Taken to a castle in the north with secrets around every corner and a mysterious visitor that sleeps on her bed, Sigyn finds that there was far more to this bargain than was on the surface.</p><p>A Logyn retelling of the Norwegian fairytale <i>East of the Sun and West of the Moon</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Monster

_Now. I must move now. I cannot wait for any longer._

* * *

My mother has a long memory, and she has said to us all a thousand times over that this winter is the worst she has ever seen. It started snowing in October, and even I, likewise blessed with an excellent memory, can never recall such an early snowfall. The cold weather is yet another blow after much of our harvest was washed out by a heavy rainstorm in mid-September. The morning when we woke up to the rain pounding on the roof will be burnt into my memory forever. Hnoss, the youngest of my six sisters and just shy of fourteen decades, had woken up before the dawn. She had never quite grown out of waking up early like my other sisters and me.

“Father! Mother!” she calls. “Look at the rain! It’s falling so hard….”

Her voice rang through our tiny farmhouse — a single room separated only by wicker walls that are more like screens than anything else, keeping the work and food area isolated from the place where the nine of us sleep. My parents share the good bed; my sisters and I sleep on the three straw mattresses pushed against the wall, huddled together like a litter of kittens sharing in each other’s warmth.

“Rain?” Father asks.

Hnoss nods, her blonde curls bouncing in excitement. “Lots. Buckets of rain.” She wiggles her fingers to illustrate.

I don’t think she quite understands the implications of what heavy rain means for us — a family who relies on the harvest to survive through the year.

My father sprints to the door, pausing only to pull on his shoes and a shirt whilst the rest of us sit upright.

“Heavy rain?” the second oldest of my sisters, Lofn, mutters furiously, jamming her feet into her own shoes. “It can’t! Not this close to harvest!”

Vár, who my sisters and I have all agreed takes the pessimistic view on life more often than she should, says, “The weather doesn’t care. We should hurry; salvage what we can.”

“What is it?” Hnoss asks. “It can’t be that bad for the harvest. I mean, everything’s underground, isn’t it? Why would the carrots care?”

No one answers her. We all follow Father out of the door, sprinting through the rain to our three fields. The leftmost is a stone’s throw away from the wood that surrounds our land, and it is flooded, the water coming up past my ankles. I run towards it. Hnoss follows me, and comprehension seems to dawn on her face as she sees how urgently we are scrabbling in the mud, and the crops that have been overturned by the rain.

“Sigyn, what is it?” Hnoss demands as I wipe my muddy hands above my cheek before I return to work. I pick up four carrots by my feet. They have been torn from the earth, their roots broken and bent in every which direction. More carrots swim in the mud, and the rain beats against my back, soaking me to the skin.

“Hnoss, get the baskets!” Father calls through the rain. It is so heavy I cannot see him. Hnoss runs off to the house, and I crouch back down in the mud, gathering all the carrots I can into a pile, regardless of their state. Some are beyond saving, withered and broken, and they will soon rot. Some will survive to be reburied, and will hopefully regrow their roots.

Hnoss drops a basket at my side, and I stuff the carrots into it, hurrying back and forth to the house and dumping them on the floor before I return to the rain.

It stops raining an hour later, and the sun comes out, but the eight of us work all through the morning, gathering every last piece of our harvest that we can. It is nearly mid-afternoon when we are finished and trudge back inside. We go to the fire my mother has built, dripping and looking for all the worlds like drowned rats as we strip off our outer layers and lay them on the stone boxing the firepit in. I hang my dress on the high bar that supports the cooking pot, and the flames hiss as drops of water roll off. Even my underclothes are soaked through, as are my sisters’.

But it is my father who stands back, not taking the indulgence of the heat, and he looks for the worst of us. He leans against the far wall, his shoulders curved as if they are under a great weight, and his head is in his hands. “We’ve lost so much,” he whispers. “Norns, we’ve lost so much of it.”

* * *

We lost half of our harvest because of the rain, and what we did manage to salvage and replant is hardly enough to feed our family of nine. I asked Father once why there are so many of us, and he laughed.

“Little Sigyn,” he said, “do you know what is the most powerful number in this universe?”

I shook my head. I had been a child of barely four decades, all amber eyes and caramel cowslip curls.

My oldest sister Gefjun, who was seven decades old at the time, answered the question. “Nine.”

Father nodded. “Nine. And so, with the power of the number nine, it is said that great fortune and luck will rule over our family. And that is why you have six siblings.” He tapped the tip of my nose.

“They’re annoying siblings,” I giggled, grasping at his hand.

Lofn clipped me on the back of the head for that.

Times had been much easier fourteen decades ago. We had been wealthy enough then. My mother had been a practiced sorceress before she had had the accident that had broken her magic. After that, we had lost half of the source of our family’s income — I was eleven decades old when Mother’s spell broke free from her control and destroyed something within her. That blow is felt this winter. I think she blames herself for our position, for sometimes when I lay awake at night, I hear her quiet sobs from the other room.

I suppose the weather tonight is suitable for the beginning of a story such as this. It is always on one of the coldest nights of winter that something strange happens, and it is no different for my story.

Tonight is one of the most bitter in my memories. We managed to gather enough wood from the forest that we could find a few decent branches, strip off the wet bark and then put them into the firepit. But fire is a hungry thing, and our supply of wood is dwindling. Syn feeds another branch into the fire from where she is seated by the pile. The rest of us are curled together under our meagre threadbare blankets as my mother melts snow for a thin stew. Sjöfn, who is twelve years younger than me, is making stock in the second pot over the fire using the bones of our last chicken. We had had little choice regarding the hen, and she had just become too old to lay eggs. None of our chickens had for a long time, but Hnoss had managed to persuade us to eat this particular hen last. She hasn’t had a bite of her though, and the part of me that isn’t currently ruled by my aching stomach feels sorry for her.

My family is all dangerously underweight. I can trace the valleys created by my ribs when I lie on my back, and Hnoss’ I can see when she stands. Her shoulders as well are bony and prominent, and her face, in the right light, is skull-like. None of us are any better, and I myself haven’t bled for nearly two months. But that’s the funny thing about hunger — after a while, the ache in your stomach is almost a companion, and when you finally get to eat, it feels almost odd.

“In King Odin’s hall,” Syn says into the silence as she pokes at the fire, “they have a boar, Sæhrímnir his name. It is said that he is slaughtered every night, and that there is always enough meat to fill even the largest of stomachs. And then, Sæhrímnir is brought back to life for the next feast the following night, and then the one after that, and the one after.”

“Don’t be silly,” Vár says, miserable. “They don’t have something as wonderful as that. It’s just a story, isn’t it, Father?”

As expected, he shakes his head and hugs Syn close, rubbing her arm. “No. Sæhrímnir is just a story, but a good one. Imagine what we could do with an immortal boar.”

 _Eat_ , I think,  _and then sell what ever we couldn_ _’t._

The thought sends a shiver of delight coursing through me, and, judging from the expressions on everyone else’s faces, it is a thought mirrored elsewhere.

The two bangs on the door makes all of us jump. Thoughts of Sæhrímnir vanish as I frown. It must have been the wind; no one in their right mind would come knocking at this time of night, much less in this weather when the two-foot deep snow blankets the land for miles and miles around. Our nearest neighbour too is a forty minute walk away in this weather.

“Sigyn,” my mother says, still stirring the contents of the pot, “could you get that, love?”

She is not convinced that it is the wind.

The childish part of me wants to protest, because surely my share of the blankets will be taken by my sisters should I leave the bundle, but Mother’s gaze is one of steel. I have little choice but to extract myself somewhat gingerly from the pile. The cold air is like a punch in my chest, and I suck in a breath. It gets a little easier to breathe after that, and I shuffle towards the door, rubbing my hands together before I dare brave the knob. I wrap my hand in my sleeve, grasp the handle with only the very tips of my fingers, and turn it.

The night is dark, and for a second I am convinced that the wind was indeed the culprit for the noise. I am annoyed that it has made me give up my hard won spot in the huddle of blankets, but then there is a shift to my left.

I gasp, stumbling back from the threshold as I see the man, no, the  _creature_ , standing in the night.

I have heard of the frost giants, and this monster, even if it is shorter than I was expecting, is by no doubt such a thing. I am unprepared for it. It is all I can do to scramble back as the monster eyes me flatly. Its gaze is the red of blood spilt on the snow, its skin the blue of frostbitten flesh, and the dark, parallel lines running in sets of three over its ludicrously bare chest, arms, and face speak of some ancient meaning that is lost to me. It is wrapped in a fur-lined cloak that blows behind it in the wind; finely made leather trousers, reinforced with scale mail on the thighs, are its only other piece of clothing — even its feet are bare.

“Get away,” I say sharply, backing away as the monster advances on the doorstep and sets foot inside my home, filling the doorway. Frost spikes from under its feet, coating the floorboards and cracking the wood. My mother screams, and my father jumps to his feet, grabbing our rusting cast-iron skillet from the hanging bar and wielding it like a club. The frost giant seems unconcerned with my parents, and instead it eyes me and my sisters. Gefjun ushers me back to the huddle and I retreat, eager to be within their safety. The frost giant is huge in the doorway, looking down on us all.

“Get out, monster,” my father barks, jabbing at the frost giant with the skillet.

The frost giant ignores the skillet, and instead addresses my father as if it were a guest holding nothing more than pleasant conversation:

“I want your third born daughter.”

My heart turns to ice. My sisters turn to me with huge eyes, hugging me closer.

“No,” little Hnoss whispers. “No.”

The frost giant’s lip curls. Every one of its teeth are pointed, and I think how of easily it must tear flesh with them. I wonder if that is what it plans to do with me. I will not let it do anything to me. I will never let it.

“No,” Mother says viciously. She stands tall as she continues, “You will be gone from here at this instant.” Although her magic may be nothing like it once was, broken beyond repair, the comforting blue glow lights the tips of her fingers.

The frost giant tilts its head to the side, looking at the magic without so much as a hint of an expression in its face. I wonder if it is afraid of the magic; the jotnar are a primitive, backwards, barbaric people, so I would not be surprised if it is.

“Please,” the frost giant says after a few seconds of silence, its gravelly voice low and much gentler than I had been expecting, “that will not be necessary, my lady.”

I can only stare. Frost giants were the villains of the stories I grew up with, and they never were polite like this one has been. It has rocked some deep part of me. But the words have sparked something within me — now the more I look at it, the less frightening it becomes. I have heard stories that the frost giants have cruel twisting horns crowning their heads, that their claws are as long as a man’s thumb joint, and that they are twelve feet tall and use trees for weapons as well as living, enchanted ice. But this frost giant is hardly like that. Its eyes may be frightening, its skin a deep cobalt blue, but I see no evidence of there ever being horns on its brow, and whilst it does have claws, they are not as long as I have heard. As for its height, it is tall for a normal man, standing above my father who I used to think was the tallest man in the world, but it stands nowhere near twelve feet.

It looks over to me, and its red eyes, devoid of either irises or whites, narrow. “If she comes with me,” the frost giant says, “I swear that you will be looked after. All of you. Not only for this winter, but for all your lives.”

The words hang in a heavy silence.

“And why should I trust a creature like you?” Father says, lifting the skillet. “There is nothing to trust of a creature that has no honour.”

The frost giant’s eyes darken, and it growls like a cornered wolf. Suddenly, it is the monster again, the creature of the cold that will kill my family without hesitation. My sudden sympathy towards it vanishes.

“You dare you accuse me of such a thing?” it asks, still dangerously quiet.

“Why would I not?” Father asks angrily. “You come uninvited into my home in the dead of night, and demand one of my daughters without so much as a hint of explanation?”

“I have as much stake in honour as any of you here,” the frost giant says. “I swear on my life and my line that if she comes with me, of her own free will, you will be looked after until the day you die. You will have enough food to fill your bellies three times over three times a day, everyday. You will have clothes enough to spill out of your closets, enough coal and wood to build a bonfire to reach the stars, and enough gold lining your pockets to buy a mansion filled with servants.”

My breath catches in my throat. I know there are too many mouths to feed to get us through this winter. Everyone here knows that without taking the chance that this miracle of a deal is real, at least one or two of us will be dead come spring.

The frost giant looks at me unblinkingly. “I swear that you will come to no harm at my hands,” it says.

I swallow, and my decision is made. The half-starved state of my family convinces me.

“I will come,” I say.

My mother wails, and my father’s face whitens. I stand up and remove the twelve hands suddenly wrapped in my rag of a skirt. My eyes are fixed upon the frost giant. He — this frost giant is male, and as such I will think of him as male —  _he_  looks at me. I think I catch a hint of surprise in his eyes before it vanishes. Was he not expecting his offer to be seriously considered? Perhaps.

“If, and only if,” I continue, determined, “you swear upon your honour that my family will receive everything you have promised them.”

His eyes are grave as he nods. “Upon my honour,” he says, a solemn vow.

“I forbid it,” my mother says. She spits at the frost giant, “How dare you come here and put this thought into my daughter’s head?” Her hands clamp around my upper arm.

I shake her off. “Mother, this is our only hope.” I look her in the eye. “Please,” I whisper.  _Please_ , I beg. I cannot bear for any of my family to grow any thinner than they already are, cannot bear for any of them be buried. If I am still alive by that time, the nagging doubt in the back of my mind that I could have saved them would ruin and haunt me forever.

“It’s a frost giant,” my father argues. “You won’t go with it, not even to drag it to the door.”

“And what would happen if you were to die because you refuse to act?” I say hotly. “I can’t have that. I couldn’t bear to watch any of you die on the floor with every rib stark again your skin.” My breaths are coming fast as the emotions well up inside me. Tears sting my eyes, and I swipe them away, angry with myself for them. “Mother, please. He has sworn to provide for you if I do this, has sworn not to bring me to harm.”

“I don’t care,” she says. “You are my daughter, and I will not sell you for anything.”

“Even for the lives of everyone else?”

She stops dead, and we look as one to my six sisters.

Gefjun stands now. “If that’s how things are going to be,” she says, “then, jotun, I will tak—”

“ _No_.” The frost giant’s snarl sends everyone back a step. The circle of frost-covered floor around his feet expands and his gaze strays to me. “I will only take Sigyn. It has to be Sigyn.”

Warmth swells in my chest for Gefjun, and I run to her, throwing my arms around her shoulders and burying my face in her dress. I am shaking with sobs, and she holds me gently, rubbing circles over my back. The truth is that I am terrified of the intensity of the frost giant’s voice when he refused Gefjun’s compromise. Only me. Why? What do I have that he wants? If he wants beauty, then I am not the first one he should have come to. Out of everyone in this land, I am hardly the most beautiful, and even within my family, Lofn is the prettiest of my siblings. But he only wants me. I don’t understand why, and neither, does it seem, anyone else.

But what scares me the most is the fact that the frost giant knew my name. No one has said it since his entry. It chills me to my bones.

“Look at him,” I say to my mother, looking over my shoulder at the frost giant. My cheeks are wet. “He is well-fed, he has wealth enough that he can afford fur —”

“It does not mean anything,” my father says. “It could have stolen the fur, eaten  _people_ —”

“Stop it,” I say. “Stop. I’ll … Father, you’ll only make it worse for me.”

“Sigyn, you won’t —”

“But why not?” I demand, angry now as I let go of Gefjun. “I am an adult, I am fertile. It would have only been a matter of time before I was required to take a husband, maybe even a matter of months. What is so different about this?”

“You will not be given to a monster,” Mother says, but I continue on.

“You will be searching for a dowry in exchange for my hand. This jotun may be a monster, or he may not be. If I were to stay and take a husband in the future, what guarantee would you have that he would not beat me? There is none; he could be as much a monster as this frost giant, or even more so. This deal is by far the greatest dowry I will ever fetch. Take it. Please. He has sworn to deliver it.”

Finally, my mother closes her mouth.

“Sigyn, don’t do this.” My father’s voice is soft, and I almost buckle then. But I fix my eyes on the frost giant and lift my chin. If I am to follow this path, then I will be brave for my family, and for myself most of all. Perhaps if I manage to create a convincing façade, the jotun will not treat me as my parents fear.

“I will come,” I say again. I cross the room. I step onto the frost. The air around him is freezing, and my hands jump to my arms.

“Sigyn please!” Hnoss wails. Lofn catches her as she lunges for me. Thick tears stream down my little sister’s face, and sobs wrack her chest. The tears come back to my eyes as I look to Lofn. Her eyes too are wet, and my gaze travels to my other sisters. To Vár and Syn; to Gefjun and Sjöfn. Each of them looks shocked, and each of them broken in their own way.

“Farewell, Hnoss,” I say quietly. “Be sure not to hog the blankets.”

“Stop it, Sigyn!” Hnoss pleads. “Don’t go with him! We need you here; please….”

“Come,” the frost giant says softly in my ear. “Do not hurt them anymore.”

I want to scream at him that  _he_  is the one doing all of this, and I almost do, my mouth opening and the words heavy upon my tongue, but I bite them back. This deal will buy my family comfort and food and safety, and I do not want to jeopardise that. After all, he’s still a frost giant, and I do not fully trust it to keep its word. How can I? I can only pray that it keeps the two oaths it has given.

We step out into the night, and I close the door behind me quietly. I shiver.

“Here, Sigyn.”

I jump as the frost giant undoes the fine clasp of the wolf fur cloak, takes it from his shoulders, and drapes it around mine. I suppose it would be warmer if it hadn’t been pressed against his icy skin for so long; but even so, it is still warmer than all of my other clothes.

“Thank you,” I whisper, holding the front closed and burying my ears into the collar.

“This way.”

He does not take my arm as I would have thought he’d have done. He walks off, expecting me to follow him. And I do, stepping in the footprints he leaves in the snow. I cannot afford to think about what I’m doing, or where he’s taking me; the courage I have found to follow him would only vanish if I do. He moves across the drifts with little effort, whereas even following the tracks he had made, it is somewhat of a struggle for me to keep up. We walk in silence for a few minutes, and even through the heavy cloak, now warm and curled around me, my fingertips are numb. My toes are worse off — I cannot feel them in my thin shoes, and thoughts flash across my mind of frostburn. It is all I can do to keep putting one foot in front of the other, to watch that bare blue back as it walks across the snow. I take the time to study him now he doesn't have his cloak.

He is made of lean muscle, and the dark lines cover his back too, disappearing into the line of his trousers. Near the back of his head, two falcon feathers have been tied into his long hair. Other than those, he has no other adornments, no jewellery.

We walk of my family’s land and onto the road beyond. We walk for a long time; I cannot feel my feet after a bare few minutes, and cannot say for how long we walk. When the frost giant reaches his destination, I feel my knees go weak. He has come upon a dark mound, and as he touches it, rubbing something, the mound stirs. I realise with a jolt that it is a beast of some kind, huge and covered in thick hide and spikes. Its eyes too are vermilion, and it lifts its head, yawning, a pink tongue curling out to lick its nose. Tusks protect its jaw, and the tail, curled tightly against the body, is a heavy looking club. Upon its back is a saddle.

The frost giant makes a clucking sound I could never replicate under his breath, and part of me wants to laugh derisively. He is treating the beast like he would a horse, and then I realise nastily to him is probably is a horse. He turns to me — I have frozen several paces away.

“Are you afraid?” he asks me.

I am terrified, have been terrified since I first saw him in the dark, but I still say, “No.”

I know that he knows that I’m lying, but he doesn’t say anything about it. “This is Blíðýr,” he says, stroking one of the great tusks.

I come forwards cautiously. “Hello,” I whisper. Blíðýr sighs heavily, and my hair rustles around my face.

“Come.” The frost giant holds out a hand, and I hesitantly take it. It feels like he has put it into ice water. He helps me into the saddle, and I hold onto the pommel as he pulls himself up behind me. Tied to the pommel is a set of reins.

The frost giant makes the strange clucking sound again, and Blíðýr sways beneath us as it gets up, shaking its head as it turns to face the north. The frost giant’s arm is tight about my waist as he picks up the reins. Even beneath his gloriously warm wolf fur cloak, his cold flesh freezes my blood. I am shivering as he drives Blíðýr forward with a sharp cry and kicks it in the flanks. The animal jumps forward, flying across the snow with easy bounds. It is far faster than a horse, and the wind stings my eyes. I throw my arm up in front of my face. I would have flown off if not for the jotun. He has moulded himself to my back, lying almost on top of me and pressing me down as he rides Blíðýr with an expert hand. It is all I can do to hold to the saddle tightly, praying that I do not fall despite the safety he offers me. The rocking motion of Blíðýr’s strides is making my empty stomach turn.

“What’s your name?” I whisper. I need to distract myself.

The frost giant’s grip around my middle tightens. Perhaps it is a gesture of comfort; I can’t tell.

“Loki,” he says in his quiet voice, so quiet I almost miss it. The name is as harsh as the wind battering me, as harsh as the cold that eats at my bones, as harsh as the stories I have heard told of his people. It is a name that suits his nature, I think.

“Loki,” I repeat. “Loki.”


	2. The Castle

_She is here, and I am determined to win both her heart and my freedom. But as we travel further and further north, my mind is working furiously; the simple fact is I do not know where to start, for she still sees me as a monster, as do I. But I am a born and bred liar; what is a little more lying?_

* * *

Someone is shaking my shoulder, rousing me gently from sleep. “Sigyn.”

I groan as I straighten up. Everything feels stiff, sore, and frozen. My fingers are tightly curled around a saddle’s pommel, and it is an effort to let it go; they ache afterwards. My back cracks as I arch it, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I have forgotten for only a second who and what I am with, but as the huge beast of a mount settles down, everything comes back to me in a fell swoop of memory: the frost giant and the impossible deal he offered my family out of nowhere in exchange for me, his steady breathing just behind my ear after he told me his name, and the strong arm he had curled about my waist, grounding me as Blíðýr ran into the unknown. Loki is behind me, and gives me a slight squeeze where he still holds me once he sees that I am awake.

“We’re here.”

Then his arm is gone as he turns to dismount, swinging his one of his long legs over Blíðýr and sliding down its side with nothing but practised ease. I look around, and my jaw drops.

We are in a huge cavern, something that would look entirely natural if not for the staircase set into the furthest wall. It is dark, but lanterns interspersed along the walls bathe the cavern in a soft blue light. Above our heads, long, dripping fingers of ice glitter. Columns shaped like hexagons rise along the walls, dusted with ice. The cavern floor is covered in a thick sheet of ice and sprinkled with grit. Behind us is a huge portcullis, still up, and the wooden doors in front of it are closing. I catch only the brief glimpse of outside before they boom shut. A seemingly endless forest of pine blanketed in silver snow shines beyond the doors. Mountains — no, cliffs — frame the horizon. The skies are the deep indigo-blue of early evening, and there are stars so numerous hanging in the sky it is hard for me to believe — I have never seen them so clearly. The galaxies within shine with every colour imaginable. North lights paint the skies green and blue and pink, flickering and dancing above the trees. Regret pulls at me for falling asleep during the ride, and I bitterly wish I had had the time to drink it all in, to see the ice and snow and the fjords and tundras; it is a dream. But the spell is broken as the doors snap shut, and the chain of the portcullis rattles as it closes.

“You can see them later,” Loki says. “There’s plenty of time for that after you’re settled.”

Oddly, the idea of settling doesn’t frighten me as it did before, despite the fact that I share the company with a frost giant. The winter now looks magical instead of it being the threatening thing I have seen it as for the past weeks. The delight in the idea of the season is returning to me. But the outside environment is hidden from me now, and my attention returns to the cavern.

“What is this place?” I ask in barely more than a whisper.

“My home,” Loki replies somewhat stiffly. “Beneath my home.” He is looking up the staircase, head tilted to the side. “Brúðguminn!” he calls. The word sounds harsh and alien to my ears, and I think that it must be something of the jotun language. But there is a scuffle of footsteps, and it is soon clear that Brúðguminn is a person and … an óss.

He is younger than I am, closer to Hnoss in age. His thatch-coloured hair is cropped short in the style of a thrall, but his clothes are fine — excessively fine for a servant. Part of me relaxes at that; my family will be well looked after if Loki can afford to dress his servants in such extravagance, provided he keeps his oath. The clothes are clean, and the detailed embroidery around the neck and cuffs of his over-tunic tell that it must not have fetched at a small price. His face looks good-natured, and his nose is plastered with freckles rather like my own — they are especially visible against his pale skin.

“My lord,” he says, bowing low before Loki. His voice is caught somewhere in the awkward stage of adolescence where it is not yet at its full deepness, but is most certainly not the voice of a boy. “I am happy you have returned safely.” His eyes flit to me, and I squirm under his gaze. They are a washed out blue that makes me think of winter skies.

“Blíðýr’s had a long run,” Loki says. Blíðýr seems to huff in agreement, and I clutch at the saddle’s pommel as he moves beneath me.

“Of course, my lord. Anything for my lord.” Brúðguminn skirts around Loki with a bow and extends a hand to me. “Come, my lady. I must attend to the lord’s steed, and you look mighty cold.”

“I’m not a lady,” I say at once. Brúðguminn turns to Loki, confusion clear on his face, but Loki’s lip lifts a little. Brúðguminn’s mouth closes.

I watch the exchange, disheartened. Some part of me wants to apologise to the boy for not being a lady wrapped up in furs and silks, but there is little I can do, so I remain silent.

I take Brúðguminn’s offered hand somewhat gingerly and try to imitate Loki’s earlier slide of descent. My skirts snag on Blíðýr’s rough hide and something rips. For a moment I am deathly afraid that the rip came from Loki’s beautiful wolf fur cloak, but a cold breeze close to my backside soon tells me what it was that had torn. I turn scarlet with embarrassment at the realisation and pull Loki’s cloak further around me so to hide it, as I am sure at least one of them heard. Neither of them say anything though.

“My lady,” Brúðguminn says. He takes from the satchel at his side a pair of rabbit fur gloves and holds them out to me. “Your hands are deathly cold. It’s warmer inside, but for now anything would help.”

I take the gloves gingerly from him and pull them, shaking, onto my hands. The fur is incredibly soft and I flex my fingers in them, simply feeling it. The warmth starts to flow back, pins and needles prickling my fingers as feeling returns. I look at Brúðguminn, a tiny smile playing around my mouth. “Thank you, Brúth — Brú —”

The boy laughs. “Brúðguminn,” he says with a wide smile. “I understand it’s a bit of a challenge to get your tongue around it the first couple of times; I had trouble too.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Brúðguminn isn’t my real name, at least, not the one my parents gave me,” he tells me, chatters, rather. “I don’t know what they called me if they did get around to naming me, but Lord Loki took me in, and so I am his Brúðguminn. All the servants are like me: no ones, lost ones. But I know what you’re thinking, my lady — I can see it in your eyes — and I can assure you that despite our backgrounds we’re efficient. We’re as quiet as ghosts and walk in the shadows. We’ll be there whenever you require. Just call for us.”

“They will hear you,” Loki says. I had almost forgotten he was there; he was watching us, head tilted to the side in scrutiny. Are Æsir mannerisms strange for him to behold? He seemed accustom to them enough last night when he spoke to my parents. “Follow me.”

Loki sweeps away and I have little choice but to obey. I look back at Brúðguminn. He has taken Blíðýr’s long reins in hand and looks laughably small to be leading the huge, hulking beast away into another cavern to the right. I wonder how he will go about caring for a beast that’s many hundreds of times his size.

Loki mounts the steps with a warning of, “Careful; they’re icy.”

My foot nearly slides out from under me when I put weight on it and I fall forward. The impact to my hands is lessened by the gloves, but I scramble upright before Loki can look back. I am careful now as I transfer my weight to my toes and climb cautiously after him, my every action focused on not falling. Loki seems to glide up the steps without even a hint of trouble, and when he reaches the top, he holds the door open for me. I almost fall inside. It is much warmer than I am expecting and I take in a breath, revelling in the temperature. Even so, I still hold the cloak tight around my shoulders.

“Are you alright, Sigyn?” Loki asks me. I nod. “Very well.

“Ambátt,” Loki calls now, “tend to Sigyn; she is in your care now. See that her every whim is fulfilled; perhaps start by drawing her a bath.”

Like Brúðguminn, the maid appears at his immediate bidding. She is a small, asynja woman with skin the dark colour of the earth. Her brunette hair is pinned into a high, no-nonsense bun atop her head, and the skin around her warm, doe-like eyes is crinkled with laugh lines. Her clothes, a floor-length woollen cream dress, are also very fine. When she takes my hand gently in her own, her skin is surprisingly soft for a servant whom I’d assumed would have had callouses rough enough to match my own.

“My Lady Sigyn,” she says, smiling at me. Even now, I cannot help but feel the heat rise to my face, and it is half a thought to take my hand from her grip. It takes much more effort than I thought it would to keep it limp. “Would you like anything hot to drink?”

“Oh … N-no, thank you.”

“But you’re freezing, my lady.” Then, to my utmost surprise, she has the audacity to turn to Loki and give him a reproachful look.

Loki does not react to it.

“My lord.” She looks back at me. “Please follow me, my lady.”

I turn to Ambátt. She curtsies in my direction before she turns and leads me through the castle. I hurry past Loki, sparing him only the smallest of glances before I venture deeper into the castle. He doesn’t look at me, and I am glad to leave him behind. Despite the fact that I was pressed against his chest for a long time, I am still uncomfortable around him; my heart still jumps in fear. He is still a frost giant, and, I remind myself, I have every right to be scared of him. This … charity — although I am loath to call it such despite when it is, in all sense of the word and the situation, true — could merely be a façade. I suddenly have the strongest urge to throw his cloak to the floor, but I don’t; I am still freezing, and my dress is still ripped.

The cavern stairs must serve as the main doors, because I now step into what I can only describe as an entrance hall. The ceiling soars above my head, and a chandelier bedecked with hundreds of thin white candles illuminate the space — the fire they hold matches the blue of the lanterns in the cavern. The dark grey stone walls hold veins of ice, as does the floor beneath my feet, but they oddly don’t feel cold. They feel immensely warm in fact. Brúðguminn was right — despite appearances and now that I’ve had time to adjust, the castle is, in fact, a very comfortable temperature. A large door to my right lies open and beyond it, I can see a feasting hall. A single long table dominates the middle of the room, bedecked with a white tablecloth. A door to the left leads downwards. A grand staircase lies directly in front of me; the balustrades are made of fine stone and carved with the utmost care. The smell of pine needles penetrates the air.

Ambátt leads me up the staircase to a landing and turns right as the staircase splits. As we climb to the next floor, we walk past a large window made of a sheet of clear glass that overlooks the forest below. I stop to look outside, mesmerised, and ask Ambátt, “What time is it?” Evening, I had thought before, but part of me scoffs at the idea. That would have meant I would have slept through not only the night, but also the entire day. Part of me is horrified at the idea — I pride myself in not lying around too long. Not to mention that at the startling speed Blíðýr travelled at, I am a long way from home. Far enough away I am afraid to think about the exact distance.

“A little after midday,” Ambátt says, coming back to join me and look at the breathtaking landscape sprawled beneath us. “We don’t get much sunlight this far north during winter; maybe three or four hours daily.”

“Three or four  _hours_?” I gasp in shock. “How far north is this?”

“We are about fifty kilometres south of Jotunheim. During the summer the opposite is true, and there are very few hours of darkness.” She turns to me and says, “Do you like the view, my lady?”

I can only nod. I am very far from home if the day-night cycle is at such extreme odds.

“Then your rooms will have only the best of views. We have many that have floor-to-ceiling windows and balconies that run along the outside.”

Rooms. As in more than one. My mouth turns dry in shock, but I force myself to say, “That would be wonderful, Ambátt.”

She curtsies again. “Then if you would follow me, my lady. We shall strive for only the best.”

By now I am deeply uncomfortable. The unprecedented kindness of this woman and the sudden wealth that surrounds me is positively overwhelming. Wealth that I, someone who is by all means a peasant girl and therefore has little right to, am being indulged in, from the cloak around my shoulders to the rabbit fur gloves on my hands. Even setting foot in such a magnificent castle as this should have been beyond me.

Ambátt and I climb flight after flight of stairs, and by the time we reach a landing to which Ambátt does not turn to the next set of steps, I am panting for breath. I am grossly underweight and embarrassingly unfit. I look out the window that has followed us upwards. By my reckoning, we’d have to be on one of the highest floors; we just have to be.

“This floor is for your personal use,” Ambátt says, coming to a great door of oak.

I snap out of my musing “The  _floor_?” I ask unbelievingly. “The whole thing?”

“Yes, my lady, the entire floor.”

“I can’t have the entire floor,” I protest. “A single room would be enough, a cupboard even —”

“My lady, please. Perhaps, if I may be so bold, you did not hear me when I said only the best things for you?” Ambátt asks.

“But —” I fall silent as Ambátt gives a small smile. She produces a key from her sleeve and inserts it into the iron lock in the door. She twists it and the mechanism within clunks open, the sound echoed loudly by the stone. She opens the door and my breath, again, is taken away.

Ambátt was not exaggerating when she said the rooms had a floor-to-ceiling window. It is an atrium, and I count five other doors leading off into other rooms. The atrium itself is lushly decorated. Tapestries upon which is complex knotwork surrounding pictures of painstakingly detailed flowers — pink caemilla, carnation, scarlet zinnia, blue hyacinths, gardenia, forget-me-nots, orange blossom, primrose, and a dozen others I cannot recognise — hang fifteen feet long. Furniture made of lightly coloured wood and carved with knotwork have been pushed against the walls — tables for pieces of art and my belongings. A round table in the centre of the atrium holds an enormous vase bursting with the flowers that are seen in the tapestries, and never mind that most of them are out-of-season. Everything else here seems impossible, so, I ask myself, why not this too?

Ambátt opens the doors one-by-one, and each of them leads to separate rooms for different uses. One leads to a suite where I may spend my spare time wiling away the hours with the leather-bound books stacked on the shelves — that would have been if I could have read them; the letters are useless to me, as I have never been taught anything beyond my numerals. A fire crackles in the hearth and I catch a whiff of pine from it. There is a grand bedroom, the bed big enough to hold my entire family comfortably. It is covered with a great duvet of soft red felt, embroidered once again with flowers, and wolf fur is laid across the foot. Another vase is rested on the bedside table holding the same flowers as the one in the atrium. A canopy hangs over the entire thing, and there is another fire in the hearth in this room. But one wall is made of glass, offering me yet another view. I wonder if I would ever get tired of waking to such a sight every day. The other rooms lead to a walk-in-closet and dressing room — the only room that is bare except for three dozen bolts of cloth in a variety of colours — a storage room, and finally, there is a small room that leads off onto a larger bathroom. This is the one Ambátt gestures me towards, and I follow her inside.

Ambátt closes the doors behind us with a soft click before she turns and walks towards me. She takes my hands in her and presses the key into my fingers before closing them around it. “These rooms are for you,” she says again, and again, I feel like crying, sobbing my heart out because I am simply so overwhelmed by everything that has happened to me. If I had been told this time yesterday of where I would find myself now, I would not have believed it. But the truth is here before my eyes and it is too much. What is it that Loki wants from me? My labour? My company?

My body …?

My heart suddenly increases its pace until it thumps like a rabbit’s when it has been caught in a trap. I have to grasp my hands to stop the tremble that comes to my fingers and I feel like crying again. Of course he would come to a poor farmer’s girl like me if he wanted that; after all, I am desperate for anything, will be willing to lick the filthiest of boots — or frost giant toes — so that my family will live. It is clever for Loki to do this, to seek out someone that he can pamper and spoil to relax into false security and that will afterwards offer little to no consequence in order for him to state his pleasures. Something tightens in my chest.

As these thoughts cross my mind, Ambátt’s arms are suddenly around me, rubbing comforting circles into my back as my lip trembles from sheer emotion — from a deep gratefulness and primaeval fear of the unknown. “Oh, sweet girl,” she murmurs. Her fingers dig into my stiff muscles, loosening the bunched knots in my back and shoulders. It’s relieving. “It’s alright.”

“Why?” I ask. My voice is shaking and much higher than it usually is. Fat tears roll down my cheeks and drip from my chin. “Why is this happening?”

“Lord Loki has his reasons,” she says.

That bodes nothing well for me. “Do you know them?”

“Yes, my lady, that I do.”

“Can you tell me?”

“I am sorry, my lady, but I have been ordered not to say a word.”

I understand, but it doesn’t mean I am not frustrated, nor does it calm me. I had not thought it possible for my heart to beat any faster than it already is, but it does so. It feels like a jackrabbit  _thump-thump_  against my ribs. Ambátt must be able to feel it, and I wonder if she can guess the reasons as to why it does so, but she is silent, and I am grateful for that.

After a few minutes, Ambátt pulls away and takes my hand between her own once again. “Come, my lady. Your bath awaits, and I am sure it will help. Dry your eyes, my lady; everything is well.”

I sniff and follow her through one of the doors, wiping my eyes with the sleeve cuff of my dress. I have cried a lot within the past day, and I despise myself for doing so. I feel like a waif, far-too innocent girl, not the young woman of almost nineteen that I am. It is unbecoming for me, and I make a vow to myself — I will not cry again as long as I am in this castle. I will refuse to cry. I am braver than this.

_For my family._

The bathroom is huge. The floors and walls are tiled with ceramic — something I have heard only adorns the bathrooms of the wealthy. This room too has a floor-to-ceiling window offering a perfect view of the forest and surrounding landscape. Beneath the window is a large tub made of dark stone, complete with taps, which is sunk into the floor. The granite is polished smooth and feels like silk when I crouch to brush my fingers along its surface. A large vanity bench stretches across one wall, a long mirror situated above it. A sink is at one end — it too has taps — and a pile of fresh white towels at the other. In the far corner of the room is an area sporting chamber pots where I may do my business.

Ambátt lays a hand on my shoulder, curling it into the wolf fur collar as she smiles. “Saumakona will be here soon,” she says. “To take your measurements.”

“Saumakona?” I ask.

“She will have you something to wear for when you have finished your bath.”

“But it’s impossible to have something made for me so soon,” I argue. “I’ve only just arrived!”

“Saumakona is very skilled,” Ambátt says, a twinkle in her liquid doe eyes.

“But this is fine,” I say, showing her my clothes. Perhaps Saumakona will be able to patch up the rip in it; it would have to be a quick fix, but I wouldn’t mind at this point. I want something normal and comforting now, not even more finery than I have no right to have access to.

Ambátt shakes her head. “You are Lord Loki’s guest, and he will not have you dress as is unfitting of the quality of the life you will live here.”

 _What life?_  I want to ask.  _That of a serving girl? Here only for his pleasure?_  But I purse my lips.

Ambátt peels the rabbit fur gloves from my hands, laying them gently on the vanity. When she gestures for the wolf fur cloak, I do not yield it. She leaves it gracefully, instead picking up two towels from the pile and hanging them on the rack beside the fire in the other room. “But more of that when Saumakona arrives. The bath will take a while to fill, so let us plan for it whilst we wait. That being said, how do you like your bath drawn, my lady?”

“Please, Ambátt,” I say quietly. I have to say something now, especially after she has treated me so kindly I cannot hold my tongue anymore. “I am no lady. My name is Sigyn.”

“I am obliged to call you ‘my lady’ whilst you are my lord’s guest,” Ambátt says, not a single pause in her work. “So, my lady, how would you like your bath?” she asks, walking back into the bathroom.

“I don’t know,” I whisper. If I am to make no headway with the servants as to what they call me, then I see little point in protesting. I do not have any experience with a dilemma such as this, but I feel as if Mother would say to leave them be in their ways. It is somewhat of a hard decision for me on my part to quell the urge, but I resolve to do my best.

 _Besides_ , I reason with myself,  _it would be nice for a while._

But it just makes me all the more uncomfortable. It reminds me of how much my world has changed. Some part of me hasn’t yet come to terms with it, and it is all because of one decision. In the end, it wasn’t a hard decision, but the fallout will, I predict, be dire. The realisation sets me on edge.

“Perhaps for now we should start with warm water,” Ambátt is saying, crouching down and turning the taps. Water gushes out of them — crystal clear and steaming. “If my lady would like the temperature to be different, it can be done.”

I can only nod.

Once she is satisfied with the running temperature, Ambátt straightens up and turns to the sink and vanity bench. “There are many herbs here with which we can scent the water,” she says. She opens one of the drawers and pulls out a white cotton bag. There is a label stitched on the front, but the letters mean nothing to me. “Lavender is my favourite, if I may say,” Ambátt says. She holds the bag out for my inspection and I take a sniff. The dizzying scent of lavender that I have always delighted in fills my nose, and I take another, longer sniff of it.

“Lavender,” I say at once.

“Might I say that there are other scents my lady can chose from?” Ambátt says, opening the drawer further still. Two dozen identical cotton bags sit within, but I cannot bring myself to tell her I would spend another age trying to pick one. Besides, lavender has always reminded me of my mother, who always had loved the scent of it. She has little pillows of the stuff lining her drawers so her finest clothes always smelt of it. I remember I had snuck one of those little pillows out of her drawer once, tucking it into the my dress pocket and taking it out over the next week and a half simply to roll it between my fingers and bring forth the smell. Lavender reminds me of home, and I want to have something of home here.

I hold out the lavender bag. “Lavender, Ambátt. Please.”

Ambátt smiles and dips her head. She takes the bag from me as a knock comes at the door. Ambátt looks to me, and, flustered, I realise she is waiting for me of all people to give the command.

“Come in,” I call a little stupidly. My voice sounds high and slightly reedy, and my face burns as a second woman comes in. She is older than Ambátt, her hair containing a slightly grizzled look to it, and she is a little pudgy around her middle. Her clothes are, to my surprise, the least fine of the servants I have seen. A bag is slung over her shoulder, and she curtsies as soon as she enters. This must be Saumakona.

“My lady,” she says.

I almost protest again, but I remind myself as to my reasons not to say anything. I settle for, what I hope, is a polite nod.

“Please,” Saumakona says, “I will take your measurements. Ambátt showed you the bolts?”

“The cloth?” I nod again, this time to myself. “Yes.”

“Is there any that took to your fancy in particular, my lady?” Saumakona asks. She eases the wolf fur cloak from my grip and folds it neatly. “The warmer colours would suit you better, I’d wager. They would complement your hair so nicely, and your eyes.”

“What of forest green?” That bolt in particular had caught my eye, not to mention that it suits me.

Saumakona touches my upper arm gently. “I wouldn’t recommend that particular colour, my lady. The colour is too cold for you.”

I sense the lie at once, and I have to wonder why exactly she is lying. But before I can ask, she’s already moved on.

“Yellows and oranges would be good in theory, but your face will be lost in it. Burgundy … now that’s an idea. Warm colour, and it’s dark so the eyes will be drawn to your face. Ambátt, her hair will have to be up. High.”

Ambátt chuckles. “Saumakona, the water will overflow.”

Saumakona turns her attention back to me. She asks me to strip naked, and when I protest, she points out Ambátt will be assisting me with my bath. There is no point in hiding, she argues; we’re all women here. And so, I pull off my numerous coats, my socks, shoes, scarves, my ripped dress and, finally, my undergarments. It is now more than ever that I feel conscious about the state of my far too skinny body, bared for all to see. I move my hands to cover myself, looking at the floor at the same moment; it also means that I can hide my face behind the curtain of my hair. Saumakona walks behind me, muttering under her breath. I hear, “Nothing more than skin and bone,” and, “No fat.” I shiver; will she be reporting how bony I am to Loki? Or does he like his women underweight and starving? She takes out a length of tape and a piece of parchment, measuring me and scribbling numbers down. It is all done within a minute, and she turns with another curtsy and leaves.

“Your bath, my lady.”

The taps have been turned off and the whole room smells of lavender. I scamper to the bath, pausing only briefly to dip a toe in. The water is gloriously warm, and I step in, gasping as I sink into the tub. At home, it was a huge treat to have a warm bath, simply because of the length of time it would take to prepare it with such small containers we owned, and the excess of firewood we would need. It took a long time to bring the water up to a temperature such as this. The lavender leaves in the water clings to my skin, and the heady scent of it leads me into a such a state of relaxation I do not hear Ambátt’s question until she has asked it at least two more times.

“What? I’m sorry, I just —” I begin, embarrassed, but Ambátt merely laughs. She does that a lot.

“My lady, I ask only if the temperature is to your liking. Perhaps you would like it a bit warmer still?”

I am nodding before I can stop myself, but I bite my lip and shoot her a look from under my eyelashes. “If it is of no trouble,” I amend.

Ambátt smiles. “My lady, for you, nothing is trouble.”

I am delighted at that, if slightly troubled despite her assurances that I shouldn’t be, but the thoughts of my mother once again come to the front of my mind, and so I agree. Ambátt turns the taps, but after only half a minute they are shut off again; my skin quickly turns pink at the piping temperature. I close my eyes and point my toes, almost floating in the bath. I find myself at peace for the first time since this impossible thing started, and when Ambátt wets my hair and massages soap into my scalp, I let go of my breath, sighing in pleasure. Her fingers are hard, the pressure against my skin most welcome, and I allow myself some time to forget everything. Forget about Loki, forget about the worries that plague me about him, try to forget about the fear that ate at my heart ten minutes beforehand.

Warm water sloshes against my head as Ambátt washes the soap from my hair. As it falls to my shoulders, it feels much softer than it did before. It is still clumped in wet knots, but I shiver in anticipation of the texture it will yield when it is dry. I open my eyes as she lathers more things into my hair; they too are thick and warm and smell wonderful. I stare out the window. The north lights flicker over the cliffs that, I notice with a slight frown, are completely free of snow unlike everything else; I wonder why.

“My lady, if you would sit up,” Ambátt says.

I pull myself up using the sides of the tub and Ambátt pours a bucket of warm water over my hair, washing the last of the soap out. “Would my lady like to sit for a little while longer?”

“Yes,” I say. I am relaxed, and it will help me avoid Loki for a little while longer.

Ambátt nods and pins my hair atop my head so not to dip it back into the now dirty water. She leaves me with a curtsy and whilst I would have thought I would have been happy to be alone, I suddenly want her back. The room seems much too big now she has gone, and the fear once again begins to take over. I don’t think as I rub the cake of soap over my body, dislodging the weeks’ worth of dirt on my skin. I get out of the bath as soon as I am able. Ambátt has lain the now warm towels just inside the door, and I wrap them inexpertly around my body. They are so soft and thick my fingers sink into them like they would in a well-cared for lawn. The stone and ceramic under my feet must be heated — it isn’t cold as I pad outside.

Ambátt is bustling around the fire, and she looks up as I stand awkwardly in the doorway. “Come, my lady.” She gestures towards a padded wooden chair and bench complete with an oval mirror —  _and of course the frame has been inlaid with mother-of-pearl_ , I think, exasperated — sitting against the wall. On the tabletop sits a huge variety of make-ups and creams that certainly weren’t there before. I am somewhat sad not to see Loki’s cloak; I think I am beginning to tease out my attachment to it. It offered a sense of security, most likely because of the all-encompassing nature of it.

Ambátt holds a robe out of me that I slip into before I sit down. “Look forward, my lady,” she says, positioning my head. There are scissors in her hand, and a flutter of nervousness that feels akin to butterfly wings stirs in my chest. “I’ll not be long.”

And so, my transformation begins with a haircut. It is not a drastic one, but it is effective. The dead and split ends are cut away, and I see my hair spiral to the floor out of the corner of my eye. All I hear for the next few minutes are the snips and clips of the scissors and the light chatter that Ambátt tries to engage me in; I do not help her cause by only answering in single words. But she soldiers on, and I desperately want to tell her not to waste her efforts on me — a girl hollow with starvation and scared witless, but I cannot; the metaphorical cat has grabbed my tongue. My hair is soon finished, and after Ambátt steps away with a final smile, I am amazed. She has managed to take what had been my damaged, poorly cut hair and make it shine. It is so soft between my fingers I cannot help but conclude that the soap she washed it with had been imbibed with some sort of magic.

“T-thank you,” I stutter. “Ambátt … this is amazing.”

“Thank you yourself, my lady,” Ambátt says with a slight dip of her head. “It was my pleasure.”

But she is hardly finished with me yet. Next, she starts on my hands. She turns them over to expose the callouses and rubs a cream into them, softening them almost at once. I know a lady’s hands should be soft, supple as silk so better to caress their lover’s faces, but part of me mourns how I must hide them, the badges of my office that I worked for years to obtain. The cream too smells of lavender, and I lift my hands to my nose so to inhale the scent. I must smell like a walking herb bush now, and I crack a tiny smile with the thought. I don’t think I have ever smelt so nice; the closest thing I would ever be able to compare it to are the few times I’ve dabbed Mother’s cheap perfume on my wrists and at the hollow of my throat whenever something important enough deemed it necessary — at a meeting detailing a large business transaction Father once obtained; the attending of one of my cousins’ weddings; when I went in search of the tanner’s boy when I had been sixteen and burdened with a hopeless crush.

Ambátt next turns her attention to my feet, propping them up on a small footstool and, to my utmost surprise, begins to scrape vast quantities of skin off the soles with a small flat tool. I am doubly surprised by the fact it doesn’t hurt — rather to the contrary, it is rather relaxing — and when I put my feet back on the ground, they feel sensitive and new. After I give my permission to Ambátt, my legs are shaved of hair as are my armpits, and my eyebrows are plucked — a long and painful process that leaves my eyes smarting and the skin red. I have heard this is what Asgard’s high ladies do, and I am curious. When it is done, I feel almost childlike in my hairlessness and decide not to do it again — except maybe for my eyebrows, which I agree look much better as they are now.

This is done over the course of maybe two hours, and by the time Ambátt lets me rise from the chair, I feel born anew. As I turn towards the mirror, Ambátt chuckles and steps in the way. “Not yet. After everything is done.”

Saumakona comes back shortly afterwards, and the previous doubts about new clothes in my mind vanish as I see the dress held in her arms; the doubts are replaced by the question of  _how_. As she holds it up for my inspection, I feel lost. It is made chiffon that is a deep burgundy, and I know that Saumakona was right — it will compliment my eyes and hair well. It is floor length, the chest made to hug tight against my torso. It is embroidered with gold thread that winks in the light, stitched in a swirling pattern that makes me think of fire. The top is cut in a sweetheart neckline and is strapless. At the waistline it becomes tiered ruffles, the edges of each layer outline with the gold thread. The back is long enough that it will trail behind when wearing it, brushing over the floor and whispering in the wake of footsteps.

I clutch at the chair, overcome with emotion as my shoulders shake. It is too beautiful, too precious a gift to accept. It is the most beautiful thing I will ever own.

“My lady, you will look stunning,” Ambátt breaths. “Saumakona, this is wonderful.”

I can only nod in agreement. I do not trust myself enough to speak, for I fear I would only gibber.

“It was my pleasure,” Saumakona says. “I look forward to the dresses I will make when you fill out, my lady; you have a beautiful figure.”

To say it was a battle for me to accept the pricelessness of the dress would be an understatement. Ambátt and Saumakona had to almost wrestle me into my undergarments — these made of the finest of silk — and a whalebone corset. It squeezes my ribs and sides, and it is such a distraction as I try to figure out how to properly breathe that I am eventually wearing the dress. My hair is teased atop my head in a knot, and threads of gold are plaited through it to match my dress; pins and clips hold the whole thing in place, and my head feels much heavier than I am expecting afterwards. My nails are buffed and painted a dark red by Ambátt — they are then protected with a clear varnish. Dark kohl is traced across the edges of my eyes, and the black brings out the gold of them all the more. My ears have not been pierced, so I must turn down two teardrop earrings presented to me by Saumakona.

“Maybe later,” Ambátt says softly as she fastens a thin gold chain around my neck — a crooked rune shaped like a bolt of lightning hangs from it. As a final touch, a light, silken cloth the same colour as the dress is placed around my left wrist — it is an old tradition belonging to court ladies who have not yet married — and pinned together with the one rune that I know:  _Ehwaz_ , which is inscribed upon the insides of my parents’ wedding rings. The rune of marriage.

When I finally get to see myself, I cannot believe my eyes; I hardly recognise the girl standing there. I am still underweight, still have the look of animal hunger, but I look more like a girl than I did yesterday. My eyes shine again; they haven’t done so for a long while. I look … beautiful.

“Let us see you from behind,” Saumakona says. She turns her finger in a circle and I oblige. I twirl on the spot, and the skirts flare behind me.

Ambátt claps her hands in front of her mouth and she is smiling broadly. “You look like a dream, my lady.”

I stop in my spinning and fill my lungs with air. I give a single nod of acknowledgement, but it is not one of arrogance — I simply do not know what else to do. “Thank you,” I whisper. I have not done any of the work myself — this new me has been a product of Ambátt and Saumakona’s care.

“Dinner is nearly ready,” Saumakona says.

Ambátt nods. “My lady, it is time to show yourself to the lord. He’ll be … well, blown away.”

 _How?_  I want to ask. Pretty dresses and shining gold aren’t going to convince a frost giant that I am something to be admired;  _I_  can’t even wrap my mind around it. But it is Ambátt’s words that I focus on: show myself to the lord. To Loki. Why must I? My earlier theory begins to sound much more correct. If it is to happen then I am determined not to walk into the wolf’s jaws trembling. I will be proud.

My shoes, I thank the Norns fervently, are merely slip-ons; heels would have broken my ankles I am sure, especially with all those stairs.

“The feast is in the great hall,” Ambátt says. “We passed it on the way up, my lady. It was to the right of the main staircase.”

I remember and I dip my head. “Ambátt, you’ve done so much for me tonight. Would it be alright if I make my own way down?”

“Of course, my lady.” Ambátt gives me a final curtsy before she disappears from my rooms. I am alone again, and I snatch up the key from the table I had placed it on before I had taken my bath. I run through the atrium, closing the doors loudly behind me and, I feel foolish doing so, hiding the key in a shadowed part of the corridor — I have no pockets or a clutch of any kind, and I do not want anyone snooping around in the space that has been given to me. I have to pry the key between two blocks of stone and, once this is done, I straighten up, clear my throat, and make my way as delicately as I can down the stairs. No one can see me now, I know, but I am practising for when I make my entrance to the main hall. The corset keeps my back straight, and I am suddenly very much looking forward to when I can take it off. I try not to think about the context in which I might have to.

The sky beyond the windows is black now, and the bright colours of the stars, the galaxies, and the north lights are even more brilliant. I stop for a half minute just to admire the sight, but I shake myself; no matter if my host is a frost giant, I will not keep him waiting; I will not let my manners deteriorate just because of him. Or in the prospect of what he might do to me. I instead will cast an impression upon him — a proper one.

The walk to the great hall is surprisingly short. The door is closed, and I pause before it, raising my hand to knock. I am trembling. Squaring my shoulders, I draw a deep breath and knock thrice before my nerves have the chance to give way.

After a second of silence, the doors open, and I suck in a breath at the sight before me.

The table I saw before is groaning with food. At least two dozen different main courses sit on the table, and I spy muffin beef stew, winter root mash, and mustard chicken with vegetables; broth, soup, roasts, minestrone with pesto croutons, and so many more things I cannot name. Crystal pitchers of deepest red wine sit in the middle of the table along with two goblets of silver.

“Sigyn.”

My eyes slide from the table to Loki who sits at the head. His chair is turned slightly to the side, and he isn’t facing me. Instead, he looks into the fire, sharp teeth resting against the knuckles of his left hand. He is wearing his wolf fur cloak again, and at the sight of it, I want to take it from him and wrap it back around my shoulders. But otherwise, he looks exactly the same as when I left him: bare-chested; fine trousers; feathers in his long hair.

“My lord,” I say, dipping into an awkward curtsy.

It is now his eyes slide to me, and it is only to shake his head. “Do not call me ‘lord’,” he said lowly. “Loki.”

“Loki.” Whilst I said his name a half-dozen times last night, it is difficult to do so tonight.

But Loki seems satisfied enough, for he gestures to the other end of the table where a second place has been set. “Sit. I’ve been told by Kokkurinn the feast is particularly fine tonight.”

“That sounds promising,” I say. My mouth is watering from the sheer assault on the senses from the food beneath my nose. I am desperately hungry; the companion I have shared my company with this winter is back and even more demanding in its want to be felt tonight. It drives me to my seat. It is a bit of a hassle to arrange all the fabric properly so that it not only isn’t bunched uncomfortably beneath me, but to make sure it won’t crinkle and fold. I perch on the very edge of my seat.

“Eat,” Loki urges and, after a final look towards him for confirmation, I do.

There are so many foods on the table I cannot pick which ones I want. So I lay a napkin over my lap and grab everything in reach with greedy hands. I take a spoonful of the muffin beef stew, a chunk of the root mash, some roasted butternut pumpkin drizzled with olive oil and rosemary, a bowl of mushroom soup, and several slices of rye bread. And since it is just sitting there, I pour myself some wine.

I try the mushroom soup first. Steam curls from my spoon and I take a cautious bite. The flavour explodes in my mouth and I am so surprised that I cannot help but gasp. It is thick and creamy, the soup full of finely chopped ham and melted cheese and thinly spread herbs, combining in my mouth in delicious tastes and textures. The mushrooms themselves I suspect had been cooked in a pan with butter, and I chase them especially around the bowl, digging to find every last sliver. They fall into delicious bits in my mouth, and I feel again as if I could weep. I am so hungry I do not bother with the table manners Mother has painstakingly taught me over the years. I take the dark loaf of bread closet to me and rip the end off, dripping it into the soup and eating every bit.

“Sigyn, slow down,” Loki says. “You’ll make yourself sick if you continue like that.”

I freeze and, with as much delicacy as I can, put down the piece of bread that had been halfway to my mouth. Shame burns in my cheeks. “Forgive me, my … I apologise, I mean, forgive me, Loki.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” he says after a few heartbeats.

I dip my head and, since it seems the right thing to say, tell him, “I thank you, my lord.”

“Loki.”

I continue to eat with more mind to my manners this time, but it is difficult; my hunger mixed with the delectability of each dish makes it a challenge — a challenge I want to lose with all my heart. I want to forget myself and cram as much food into my mouth in as little time as possible, to drink the sweet wine which tastes heavenly upon my tongue, but I pace myself, mindful of Loki watching me and my own want to impress him with my table manners. I am not the feral thing my stomach begs me to become.

It is only when I am nearly halfway through my meal do I notice Loki hasn’t yet made a move to eat a single thing; only a mug of something hot and steaming sits in front of him. I pause, frowning, and fold my hands in my lap. “Will you not eat?” I venture.

Loki grimaces and says, “I doubt you would find my diet appealing, Sigyn.”

My thoughts jump to the stories I heard growing up, about how the frost giants feasted on the boys and girls who were out after dark or never listened to their parents. But Loki must have seen something in my face, because he chuckles under his breath and says, “It’s not what you’re thinking, I can assure you. I take my meat uncooked and bloody, and I eat the bones as well. It is hardly the most civilised thing to consume at a dinner table.”

I shake my head. The thought that Loki eats essentially what dogs do doesn’t disturb me as much as he might think it does. Perhaps it would have disgusted the ladies of Asgard’s high courts, but after spending a winter living on anything that was even slightly edible, I am no stranger to odd foods. “It doesn’t bother me,” I say. “If it makes you more comfortable, then do not hesitate to eat with me.” I try to smile at him, but there’s a darkness in his eyes that makes it die in my mouth.

Loki isn’t looking at me as he cradles his mug, instead gazing into the crackling fire. I wonder if he’s hot, sitting wrapped in his cloak with a burning fire a few metres away. His body temperature is significantly lower than mine, and so logic says that this warm room must be sweltering to him. I can’t tell what he’s thinking; he keeps his face carefully schooled, and it irritates me a little when I am so used to reading the expressions of those around me.

“I am not here to horrify you, Sigyn,” he says finally. “The crack of the bone between my teeth is nothing pleasant to listen to; I will not force you to watch me eat the splinters, either. It works better like this. I do not wish to condemn you to watch acts as savage as that.”

“Perhaps they are not as savage as you think they are,” I say.

“Sigyn,” he says, finally looking at me, “they are.” There is such unfathomable sadness in his eyes I can’t help but take notice of it. Jotnar cannot feel emotions beyond those of rage and unquenchable bloodlust. It is proven fact.

I have to look away, and my gaze too jumps to the flames. I reach for my goblet and drink the wine through pursed lips; I try my best not to think of what I saw in those vermilion eyes.

The rest of the meal — only really my meal — is spent in silence. It is only the two of us, which I think is strange. I have heard that when one owns servants, they are there to attend to one’s every whim, including the service of food, but I see no one else. I am glad that I can do something for myself though. But for every second afterwards I am aware of Loki’s eyes upon me, and it unsettles me in no way that he has done before. Part of me wants to tell him to look away, scream at him to leave, but I bear it in silence. Is this a test? If it is, I don’t know whether I want to pass it or not. I cannot even fully taste the wondrous food any more so distracted am I by his gaze.

It is almost a relief when I finish, laying my knife and fork down on the plate and sitting rigidly in my chair, my back straight as a pin.

“Have you finished?”

I bite back the sarcastic retort that jumps to the front of my mind and nod instead; the last thing I need is to get onto Loki’s bad side.

“Very well. Leave everything, and the servants will clean up.”

“But —”

“Sigyn, you are a guest in this castle and as such, you need not worry about anything but yourself.”

I nod my understanding.

As I stand, I fight to hide a grimace as my full stomach lurches. The rich food, I suspect, was too much for me after spending the last few weeks living off stunted vegetables and lean, scraggly pieces of meat. And that is not even beginning to touch on how much I ate.

Loki too rises and he sweeps past me, the cloak around his shoulders billowing behind him as he leaves. He turns back once he realises I haven’t yet moved, and he gives the tiniest jerks of his head. “Well, Sigyn? Will you follow me or not?”

I follow him. I am suddenly scared. Is it now that he will take me? If so, I will not go down without a fight. I hold my head high as I walk through the door he holds open, fingers interlaced in front of me as I wait for his next instruction. The door echoes loudly as it closes and Loki turns towards the stairs. My footfalls are silent as I pad after him, my skirts shuffling behind me and I try to remain as small as possible. When I walked through the castle with Ambátt to the upper floors, whenever silence fell between us it had been a comfortable one. Again, not a word is spoken between Loki and me as we climb, and this silence is one like brittle ice. Not even the spectacular views offered by the windows distract me now. My thoughts are too wild and scared.

We don’t climb as far as Ambátt and I did to my rooms — only to the top of the chandelier before Loki turns towards the inner part of the castle. Norns, this must be it. I steel myself as walk after him, and as much as I try for them not to, my steps echo now. From Loki, I can hear something scraping against the stone — claws I soon realise. Fear once again stokes in my belly. The corridors are wide though, and like my rooms, the walls are hung with tapestries that illustrate scenes that I can’t make much sense of; more of those blue lanterns light the way. Doors are interspersed throughout the corridors we travel down, identical and impossible to tell apart for me. But to Loki they are obviously familiar as he doesn’t pay attention to any of them. I wonder if they are bedrooms.

We are not far from the stairwell — perhaps only fifty metres or so — before Loki opens a door and invites me inside. Warm air hits my face and I enter.

It is not a bedroom, but a solar, an open room full of comfortable furniture, cushions, and couches. It will suffice for his purposes anyhow. A white bear fur rug sits in front of a crackling fire that also smells of winter pine, the scent filling the whole room. To be at complete odds with the architecture of the rest of the castle, there are no windows in the room — most probably because we’re in the heart of the building, I realise. The veins of ice in the walls here seems to emit a luminescent glow, the light within moving slowly through; it reminds me almost of a heartbeat, or of insects crawling sluggishly along a plant. A single large tapestry dominates the space above the mantelpiece, and I step towards it to investigate. To delay. My bottom lip trembles.

“The Asgard-Jotunheim War,” Loki explains as he closes the door behind him. I feel rather than see him move behind me, and my shoulders lock. It is now, and I half expect to feel lips on my bare skin, claws snapping the threads of my beautiful dress. But there is nothing; he just stands next to me. His entire attention is focused on the tapestry now, upon the clash of blue and gold as jotun and óss fight one another, forever frozen in a moment. “So much from that times echoes into ours now, consequences of the war that are burdens to us. It is one of the most unfortunate things to happen since the slaughter of Svartalfheim.”

“You … you  _mourn_  the war?” I ask, surprised. I use this time to step away a little.

Loki sighs and retreats to one of the couches, sitting down and resting his elbows upon his knees. I am so relieved that he has stepped away I want to cry. “The war was a … defining point for me,” he says.

“You were alive to see the war?” I ask.

_Keep talking. It’s not over yet. He might still come on you._

“Alive yes, but I don’t remember it. I was born within the final days of the conflict.”

“I see.”

“The war sculpted who I am. What I am.”

I don’t understand what he means. I sit on the couch furthest away from him.

“Are your rooms to your pleasing?” he asks now.

Now it’s back to this, and it all but confirms my worst fears. Bedrooms. “Yes, thank you. The view is …”

“Breathtaking.”

“That is one way to say it.”

“The eastern view is my personal favourite. I am pleased to hear you find it enjoyable.”

The silence that lapses is awkward for him, terrifying for me. I fiddle with one of the pieces of fabric making up my dress in an effort not to think of what might become of it when Loki forces himself on me.

Loki sees my picking, and it is what he latches onto to restart what little conversation there was between us. “Saumakona has done a wonderful job with that. It suits you well.”

“Thank you,” I whisper. In an effort to get away from those thoughts of sex, my brain latches into the thought about the green bolt, wonders how that would have looked on me. “It’s the most beautiful and expensive thing that I have owned.”

“Saumakona shall make you a hundred more like it if you so wish,” he says.

“No,” I say quickly, turning my head and trying to look him in the eye; he doesn’t meet my gaze. “I can’t. This is already too much.”

“It’s not. What you have seen so far is nothing.”

I ask the heavy question that had been on my mind since Loki came with his demand: “Why?”

Why has he done everything. Why has he brought me here; dressed me clothes I would have never been able to afford; treated me like a princess; not forced himself on me yet as I am convinced he will do; picked  _me_  of all people to come here? All I want now is closure.

He looks at me, and I still have to resist the urge to shiver under his bloody gaze. I wonder dejectedly if I will ever lose that urge — I can only hope that I do. I will not have myself shiver and flinch and live in fear under him. But I have every right to fear him, I remind myself. Every right.

My hands fist at the fabric of the dress and I look him squarely in the eye. I do not flinch. “Why have you done this for me? Why have you done everything? My lord,” I add — just for spite. I look down now, and I release the dress to fold my hands in front of me — an imitation of what I have heard of high court ladies. I wonder in the back of my mind if I have creased the chiffon; I pray I haven’t. As if it will matter — it will be in tatters soon.

But if I was hoping for an answer from him, I am to be disappointed. He turns away and says, “I’ve already told you, Sigyn — don’t call me a lord; just Loki.” He cuts off any potential questions or protests by saying, somewhat stiffly, “You must be exhausted from the trip.”

But I am sick of him beating me around the bush. So I decide to get straight to the point. To get it over and done with. “Why have you done this? There must be something in it for you.”

He looks surprised. “What makes you say that?”

“Because … because you’re a man,” I say. My voice breaks.

I needn’t say anything more, for Loki’s eyes widen in understanding. “You think I am to force myself on you?” he asks, stunned. I can only nod, fast. I look away. “Sigyn, I wouldn’t do that.”

The relief is only short lived as another argument comes to mind: he could be lying. “Then why exactly am I here? You’re a frost giant; there is always a selfish motivation behind the actions of creatures like you.” I jab at the tapestry. “Jotunheim invaded Midgard because you wanted to rule the humans; you didn’t even need a reason beyond that.”

Loki’s eyes darken. “There is a selfish reason,” he says, “for I am a selfish creature. But not for what you’re thinking, I can assure you of that.”

“Then tell me,” I demand.

“ _I can’t_.”

My mouth closes at the hiss in his voice and I swallow. A growl lay behind his words then, and I do not want to hear it again.

“I can’t tell you,” Loki says, his voice much more controlled now.

“Can you tell me why you can’t tell me?”

I expect the answer he gives: “No.” He looks at his hands now. There is something in his eyes I can’t pick out, and his lip is curled ever so slightly. He sighs deeply and straightens up. “Goodnight, Sigyn. If you won’t be retiring now, then I will.”

He doesn’t move from where he stands, and I realise it is my cue to leave. I give him a stiff curtsy before I turn to the door. I all but scurry past him.

“Ambátt, show Sigyn back to her rooms,” Loki says behind me.

As if on cue, Ambátt opens the door. I jump a little; I have to wonder how she does that. She is calm and collected as she bows to Loki. “Yes, my lord. I bid you goodnight, my lord.” Ambátt turns to me. “Come, my lady.”

“Goodnight,” I whisper to Loki.

He freezes behind me, and I sneak a glance at him from the corner of my eye. His face is slack, and he looks at me in shock I think. I can understand why: after the way I was talking to him not a minute before, I expect that he thought me to leave without a backwards glance, much less a word.

“Goodnight, Sigyn,” he says again, but this time with a hint of softness that wasn’t present in his voice before.

I need to get away from him. I step out of the solar and take a breath. I look to Ambátt and say, “Please, I am tired. May we go back now?”

“Of course, my lady.”

Not a word is said between us as Ambátt leads me back to my rooms. It is not hard to remember the way, and surely Loki must know that. But I suspect he ordered Ambátt to escort me for the comfort of sharing the walk with someone. I retrieve the key from its hiding place and try to ignore my trembling fingers as I slide it into the lock. Emotions are bubbling within me — confusion, fear, relief, and suspicion in equal measure — as Ambátt leads me to the bathroom. She helps me out of my dress and corset before she wets a cloth to wash the make-up from my face.

“How was the meal, my lady?” she asks.

After a few seconds of thought, I say, “Silent.” The food was amazing beyond compare, but it is Loki I remember most — silent Loki as he watched me eat. A shiver runs through me at the memory of his eyes on me and I straighten my back.

Ambátt does not press for any more details after I offer none. She leads me to the dressing chamber where a nightgown made of finely spun and heavy wool awaits. It is cream, the hem stitched with gold thread once more, this time detailing little birds. It is soft and thick between my fingers and Ambátt helps it over my head. It brushes my ankles, and I cannot help but run my hand all over it, sighing happily at the texture of it. From the way it fits snuggly around me, I wonder if Saumakona has also made this for me. If so, I again have to wonder at how fast she has done it, and I feel bad for her. The selfish part of me reasons that this guilt is a good distraction from my fear.

“Did Saumakona make this?” I ask.

“Yes, my lady,” Ambátt says. “Whilst you were with Lord Loki.”

“How …? The stitch work —”

Ambátt laughs. “As I said before, my lady, Saumakona is very skilled.”

It is not the answer I am looking for, but as this is the second time Ambátt hasn’t elaborated, then I do not try to get any further information from her. It would be highly unfair as well if I asked from her more if I refused to tell her more when she asked questions about my evening.

The bedchamber is in the next room, and as such, a door connects the two. The curtains have been drawn across the windows — “The glass takes all the heat from the room, my lady.” — and as such, the only source of light comes from the blue lantern just above the bed. The light hovers in mid-air; magic, then. The bed is so soft I sink into it, sighing contentedly at the feel of it beneath me; if I could lie on the clouds, I think, then I imagine this is what they would feel like. There must have been a warming pan under the covers not too long ago, because the sheets are toasty. There are at least eight pillows behind my head, and it is they of all things that remind me of how big the bed is. I sink my hands into the fur laying over the top of the felt duvet cover, curling my fingers into it. Somehow, I find, I am still thinking about that stupid cloak. I still want it back, and I am angry with myself for wanting it. Angry at why I still want it. It is Loki’s.

Ambátt tucks the sheets and duvet back into place. She comes to stand at my side, looking down at me before crouching to my level. “Goodnight, my lady,” she whispers. I half expected her to run a thumb over the back of my hand, to comfort me with her touch as she has done before, but she does not. I didn’t want her to either, and I wonder how she knows when or not to do so.

“Thank you,” I reply, equally softly.

Ambátt smooths the covers once more before she stands and leaves. The light above me winks out of existence a few seconds later, and I lay alone, blinded by the dark. It presses in on me from every side; I have not been afraid of the dark since I was very young, but now when I know very little of the environment around me, that primal fear comes rushing back. My thoughts race as I lie there in the too big bed, becoming increasingly restless. Loki didn’t want to force himself on me. My shoulders shake in relief and I laugh to myself. He said he didn’t want to. I feel happy for the first time since I’ve come here, and it is lightening, freeing.

But fear soon returns, clamping down on my happiness like a mouse snatched up by a cat. I am also beginning to get over the softness of the mattress. It bothers me now, and it does nothing to help me get to sleep so my mind can just be at rest and the fear can leave me be at least until morning. I had never thought it possible for something to be too soft, and so I squirm for a while, trying to find a position in which I can sleep comfortably. My heart is loud in my ears the whole while. I sweep the pillows off the bed after a little, turning onto my side and curling around one whilst tucking another between my knees; it something I haven’t done for years but offers me a surprising amount of comfort now. I squeeze the pillows tightly.

I lie there for what seems to be hours. I cannot get to sleep. I hate it. All I want to do is sleep now, but the bed and the dark and the yammering  _why why why_  in my mind make it an impossibility. I have almost given up on the bed after a lengthy debate in my head about whether or not I should sleep on the floor when I hear the door open. I freeze, panic and terror flooding my mind. I wonder if it is Ambátt coming to check on me like a mother would a child, but then footsteps sound throughout the room. Footsteps that are far too heavy to belong to Ambátt. I bite my lip to keep myself from making a single sound as the footsteps draw closer — I am thankful now that I chose to lie on my right so my back is facing the door.

_He doesn’t want me he doesn’t want me he told me he doesn’t want me._

I hug the pillow tighter to my chest as the stranger stops next to the bed. My ears are straining for any further sounds, but the only one I can hear is the stranger’s breathing. At the realisation, I pay attention to my own breathing, forcing it to become slow as I imitate sleep. I am, I conclude, a terrible actress. But at least it could buy me more time to escape this room if this visitor aims to have their way with me; judging from the weight of the tread, I am almost completely sure it is a man.

Or perhaps not so terrible an actress, as the visitor moves again. There is a rustle of cloth and I almost scream as they climb onto the bed. My heart pounds like a drum.

_He doesn’t he doesn’t he doesn’t —_

I bring my legs closer to my chest, fighting desperately to keep still and calm as the visitor readjusts themselves with a heavy sigh. I tense all the more as a hand is placed, somewhat hesitantly, on my side.

_No no no no no —_

I want to kick out at the visitor, want to turn around and claw at their eyes so they will leave the bed and never come back, but the hand becomes heavy; evidently they don’t aim to move it again. And, strangely, after a while, it becomes so warm and heavy and comforting I cannot bring myself to move it; I notice also it is placed in somewhat safe and neutral territory — neither too close to my chest or legs, but perfectly in between. I turn my head minutely in an effort to see whom it belongs to, but the room is just too dark. The only reassurance I have that it is not Loki is that the hand is far too warm to belong to him, and neither sharp claws nor raised tribal lines press into my side. I feel like crying with relief. Loki is not warm, far from it in fact. It is not him. Thank the Norns that it is not him. This one strange instance, after a day full of luxury and warmth I had forgotten, perhaps I will be able to stand whatever horrors this stranger may have for me; I will be able to stand it when I know that whoever is on the bed beside me, it is not the vermilion-eyed jotun who took me away from everything I had known.

I lay there for a long time, fear beating a tattoo against my ribs, but the stranger does not stir, they do not climb under the covers, and the hand upon my side does not twitch. Their breaths are long and even, heavy with sleep, and thoughts of midnight assault slowly fade away as I wait for what seems an eternity for something to happen. But as nothing happens and my visitor continues to sleep, I inevitably relax. Suddenly, the mattress does not seem too unforgivably soft, and the warmth of the blankets and the heady smell of pinesap that fills the room coaxes my eyelids to droop. After a little longer, I simply cannot stay awake. If the stranger plans for me to lower my guard, they getting what they want. But even as I drift on the edge of unconsciousness, they still do not move. My last thought is that they will only act when I am fast asleep, but I am too drowsy to dwell on it for any longer, to care.

My dreams that night are full of frost giants. Proper ones like those on the tapestry that stand twelve feet tall and are horned and savage and willing to ravage me without a second thought before tearing the skin from my bones and devouring it. I toss and turn all night long. When I wake, the stranger is gone, and my fingers are curled around the stem of a single, thornless rose; it is blood red and in full bloom despite the season. I bring it close to my nose, breathing in the scent. The lower half of my body does not hurt in any way, there is no blood either, and the pillow is still clasped between my knees. It is all the confirmation I need; nothing happened last night to my utmost relief. I would have thought it a product of my imagination if not for the rose. I take the flowers currently in the vase at my bedside out and replace them with the rose, wondering what it means for me.


	3. The Visitor

_When the cold creeps into my bones, I must fight to bite back the bitter howl in my throat. Every day it is a battle to resist the urge to rip the skin from my arms and chest in the impossible effort to escape the truth, the image of hideous creature that I am. It has never become any easier, even after ten years._

I’m sorry _, I think as I flee._  I’m sorry….

* * *

I have been looking at the rose for the past ten minutes, seated at the centre of the bed with my legs curled up to my chest and my mouth pressed to my knees. My fingers are buried in the thick material of the beautiful nightgown, fiddling absently as I stare at the flower and its perfect bloom. Despite the fact that I have accorded it, by all means, a place of honour in the vase, the significance of it chills me. The only person who could have left it is my visitor, my night’s companion, unless someone else left it for me. It is a possibility, but one that I doubt. I myself don’t understand why I’ve done this. Maybe it is because the rose offers proof that last night happened, as the sheets and furs on my companion’s side of the bed are smooth and unrumpled. It is an odd reminder, I think. I was terrified last night, and yet I want to remember.

I don’t understand why I am reacting as I am — what with the opposing thoughts that I have — and it infuriates me. This whole, impossible situation does.

For at the heart of it, I am scared and confused. I am a girl — a child — who is so very far from home.

I want my family.

I hug myself a little tighter, biting my lip to keep it from trembling.

A knock on the door takes me from my melancholy thoughts, and Ambátt steps inside after a few seconds pause. I am now certain it was not her who visited me last night, as her tread is much lighter than that of my companion.

“Good morning, my lady,” she says, crossing to the fire and restacking the wood. “How did you sleep last night?”

I look to the window and the curtains still drawn across it. No light peeks around it, and it takes a second for me to remember why — the strange daylight hours here. “I slept as well as I could have hoped,” I settle on. I do not mention my companion; I feel no need to. I do not want to drive Ambátt, my one friend in this castle, away. I feel spineless because of my unwillingness to speak, but there is another reason for my silence: this want to remember, a time that I shared only with my visitor. At … at the strange familiarity of it all. I want it to be private.

Fire springs up in the grate and Ambátt steps away, placing the poker she had been holding back on its hook.

“Why am I here?” I ask.

“You have been invited by Lord Loki,” she responds without pause.

“Why am I here?” I repeat through my teeth.

“My lady, please pardon my forwardness, but I have already told you I cannot give you the answer you seek,” Ambátt says. “That is for Lord Loki to tell you.”

“Ambátt, please. Please.” My voice has reduced to a broken whisper. A beg. “Why can’t you tell me? Why can’t I  _know_  …?”

Pity is rife in Ambátt’s eyes as she comes over, sitting on the edge of the bed and bringing me into a hug as she had done yesterday. “All in time, my lady,” she says. “Be strong. No harm will come to you, I promise.”

But I do not want promises: I want answers. And I will get them — I swear it to myself. If I have to grit my teeth and smile sweetly to do so, then I will. I can play the long game.

I nod, taking a deep breath to centre myself, to calm my heart and mind. I pull away from Ambátt, sniffing.

“There, sweet girl,” Ambátt says gently, rubbing my arm. “Come, you must be hungry. Let us get you some breakfast.”

She coaxes me to stand. The rugs are plush beneath my feet, but I cannot appreciate their softness now. Ambátt leads me to the dressing chamber. A long dupioni silk dress hangs ready for me from one of the wardrobes. It is the colour of ivory, the skirts full and long enough to sweep behind me for several inches. Mother once owned a dress made of dupioni silk, and she had said the shimmer in the fabric came from the stars woven into it. I had called it her star dress, and I still do when I think of it, but she had sold it many years ago. I feel as guilty as I had done last night when Ambátt presents it to me. This dress, although it does not match the magnificence of the burgundy gown, is by no stretch of the imagination invaluable. It is something that a high lady would wear.

It is my own star dress. A take a breath and hold my arms out for it.

“My lady, there is no need for you to do this yourself,” Ambátt says. “I will help; the lacings upon the back are tricky.”

They are, and it takes Ambátt a fair few minutes to do them up. A shawl made of sheer material is passed behind my back to hangs on my elbows; I must keep them bent at all times so it does not fall to the ground.

“Did Saumakona make this?” I ask as I stand in front of my mirror. My hair is pulled into an elaborate knot today, much like the one from last night, but the pattern Ambátt has pinned it into is different.

“Yes,” Ambátt says, straightening the skirts of my dress.

My gut clenches. “How long …? Norns, she didn’t work through the night for this, did she?”

“Saumakona is happy doing these things for you,” Ambátt says. “She is delighted, and she does not mind.”

“She did stay up, didn’t she?” I feel bad.

“Yes, my lady. And she has also made you some more things. The wardrobe needs to be filled.”

“I want her to stop making me things,” I say. I cannot do this to her. “Please, Ambátt, please tell her to stop. It’s too much….”

“My lady, it is her job to do this,” Ambátt says. “Would you ask her to give up her profession because her only client feels guilt for no good reason?”

I think of my family, of the farm. We would never do that. I give a tiny nod of understanding. “Then please … please tell her not to sacrifice her sleep and meals for me.”

“I will,” Ambátt says. “Now come, my lady. I will lead you down.”

We make ample chat as we walk down the stairs, talking about the scenery outside, the beauty of the castle. We do not broach the subject of Loki, and I do not say a word about the visitor. In all honesty, after our parting words last night, I am dreading the moment when I will see Loki again. I dread it to the point that I feel a little ill and as if something heavy has seated itself on my chest.

But as it is with these things, it is no time at all until I stand outside the great hall. I inhale deeply as Ambátt opens the door, and I step inside. My teeth are almost chattering.

Loki sits at the head of the table, looking at the food with, what I think is, a sense of utmost longing. He is still wearing only his trousers and cloak, and part of me wonders if that is all he owns in the way of clothes. Perhaps that is why I have received so many: Saumakona is just desperate for something to do. But the thought that Loki owns nothing more than what he currently wears is preposterous. Of course he would have more things — he lives in a castle, and even I have more clothes at home than one set.

The table is once again buried in food. To say I am partially excited, yet partially exasperated, at the prospect of another feast would be an understatement. I am delighted at the thought of not only such a vast quantity of food laid out for seemingly only me, but of the variety and quality of it also. My exasperation is mixed somewhat with concern; I couldn’t eat the entire table, and neither could Loki if he deigned to join in. The servants would probably eat the rest for their own breakfasts, but they surely would have been up since the crack of dawn and therefore would have already eaten. But if, judging from last night, every meal I will sit down to will be a feast fit for a dozen, where would all the uneaten food go? I worry for waste. My stomach growls loudly and I look at it somewhat horrified. I had been positive the meal last night would have quieted it for at least a week.

Loki looks up at the sound of my footsteps on the flagstones, expression neutral. I jump a little.

“Sigyn,” he greets me, his tone matching his body language. “Come, sit.”

I do not need to be told twice, but I perch on the very edge of my chair like a bird ready to take flight at the slightest whiff of danger. I am still scared of Loki. I have known him for less than two days, and that is hardly long enough to convince me that he isn’t luring me into a false sense of security. But I sit because I have to. I have to comply; according to him and Ambátt, I am a guest. I wait with terror for what he will say next. It will be about last night; I can sense it.

“How did you sleep?” he asks.

I blink in surprise. No, he’s just easing me in. That’s all. “Well,” I reply, just to say something. Like it was with Ambátt, I see no point in mentioning the visitor.

“Do you have any plans for today?”

“Perhaps … perhaps I will explore today. Outside,” I say a little meekly. “I don’t yet know.”

Loki nods. “If you are to wander,” he says, “don’t go beyond the Troll Wall.”

“The …?”

“The cliffs.”

Oh. But they are a few kilometres off, so I doubt I would be able to travel to them within the day and make my way back to the castle. I do not worry about it; besides, I am too busy worrying about the now.

“Why not?” I still ask.

“That’s where the real monsters live,” he says. “The Wall is home to things far fouler in attitude than I. The rocks are infested with trolls,  _trollkärringar_ , and  _huldra_ , as are the trees several acres around the cliff foot. In the glen near there lives a witch, and the rivers around her cottage are likewise home to  _nøkken_. Elves also haunt the forests as well as  _díser_. And not only that, but Jotunheim lies beyond there, Sigyn.”

“But are you not of Jotunheim?” I ask, confused.

Loki doesn’t answer my question directly. “They are barbaric,” he settles on after a few seconds of silence. “Its people and I are hardly alike.”

There is a story behind his attitude, I think, but I do not prod him for more information. If I am to find out the reasons for his thoughts towards the realm, it will not be for some time. I instead turn my attention to the food in front of me.

There are pancakes drenched in rich honey, patties, and cereals. Half a dozen types of bread cooked through with herbs, nuts, fruits, cheeses, and pieces of meat — beef, bacon, ham, and pork loin — still steam with warmth, evidently fresh from the oven. Platters of eggs that have been hard-boiled, scrambled, and poached are interspersed with dishes boasting summer fruits that I think must have been imported from either Vanaheim or Alfheim. There are plates of breakfast meats arranged artfully on the table, boasting bacon, beef and pork sausages, chicken, and mutton cooked to perfection that add to the smells assaulting my nose. Jugs of water, fruit juice, and milk — hot and cold — sit in the centre of the table, as well as a dozen different types of tea, coffee, and — my mouth waters when I spot it — ground chocolate. There is even a container of light beer.

There is so much to choose from I once again don’t know where to start, so I take a pinch of everything and decide what I want as I eat. Once again, I cannot pick a single dish as flavours and textures explode on my tongue. The honey is sweet and thick in my mouth, and some of it has been cooked into a couple of the loaves of bread. The eggs have been salted, rather coincidentally, exactly as I like them when we could afford to buy salt at home. The fruits are sweet, and oppose the meats in every way; I leave them on separate sides of my plate. But as I stand to reach for the chocolate, a servant appears at my elbow. I jump in surprise, but mostly it is because I am still so tense.

The servant is of middling-age, with thinning grey hair, bad teeth, and a potbelly, but his demeanour is kindly.

Loki clicks his tongue in disapproval. “Warn the poor thing next time, Kokkurinn. She’s not used to these sorts of things.”

“I apologise, my lady.” His voice is deep, and his accent burred. I cannot pick where it is from.

“It’s fine,” I say, standing awkwardly with my hand still reaching for the chocolate.

“Make her a mug with the cinnamon,” Loki says.

The servant, Kokkurinn, bows his head and busies himself with the preparation.

“Kokkurinn is my chef,” Loki says, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair.

“I am very satisfied with your work, sir,” I say. “I … it’s the most wonderful food I have ever tasted.”

“You need not address me as such,” Kokkurinn chuckles. A large ceramic mug is in front of him, and I watch as he heaps generous amounts of chocolate, sugar, a pinch of salt, and a golden-brown powder into it. He pours a little heated milk into the whole thing and begins to whisk. I watch his hands mostly, admiring how quick and dexterous he is as he measures out ingredients with obvious expertise.

“Sigyn,” Loki says, and I look away from Kokkurinn. It will be now; I know it. But Loki once again skirts the elephant in the room: the discussion of last night. “How are you finding the service?”

“Wonderful,” I say quickly, “but I worry a little….” I pick at the sleeve of my dress. “I … I don’t want anyone to … to …”

_I don’t want anyone to go out of their way for me._

I try to say it, but the words won’t come. I sniff loudly, wiping my nose with the back of my hand. I see Loki stand out of the corner of my eye. He comes to my side of the table as quick as the wind, kneeling before me and reaching for my hand. I see his claws firstly, and I gasp and flinch back on instinct before he can touch my hand. He freezes, and his eyes widen a degree as if he has only just realised what he’s doing — he pulls away as if trying to offer me comfort is something terrible. His mouth opens slightly, but then it closes as he swallows and clenches his hand into a fist. He sighs, standing up and backing away. His shoulders slump.

“Sigyn, you are a guest, and I don’t want you to feel guilty for that,” he says quietly. He looks to Kokkurinn and jerks his head minutely to a large wooden door. Kokkurinn finishes with the chocolate and leaves with a bow. Now Loki and I are alone again.

“I’m sorry,” I say. I feel guilty for flinching, despite what he is. I am gentle in nature, and so I cannot help but feel as I am now. I stand. “Loki, forgive me.”

He waves it away. “Sigyn, there is no need to apologise. I can’t blame you for your actions.” I don’t know whether he is talking about my worry for the servants or how I reacted to him, or whether it is both. He looks to the mug and says in barely more than a murmur, “It’s best hot.”

He steps back from the table as I reach for the mug. The guilt surmounts; he is cautious of frightening me.

The smell of cinnamon clouds my nose as I bring the mug to my lips. The heady taste that spreads over my tongue — cinnamon, cream, and rich chocolate beneath everything — is heavenly. The heat of the drink scalds my tongue a little, and I have to settle for holding the mug between my hands to wait for it to cool. Loki looks to the fire now, moving almost soundlessly towards it.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “For … for what I said last night.” There, it is out in the open. But if there is one good thing for me starting the conversation, it is that at least one bit of my guilt is off my chest, simply for apologising.

Loki looks back to me, frowning a little. “Sigyn, you don’t need to apologise for that. It just … it never crossed my mind that you would fear that.” He sighs. “I should have made that clear. No one will harm you here. I swear it.”

My full stomach feels as if it has dropped away. No need to apologise … there it is again. “On your honour?” I say, partially to make him crack a smile, and partially to wave off the awkward silence that has descended upon the table.

He nods. “On my honour.” He is silent for a heartbeat before he says, “Your family. I put the necessary things in order yesterday. They should be receiving the first part of their promised things this morning.”

My heart speeds up, all my other thoughts falling away. “Thank you,” I whisper, my voice quivering. “Thank you, Loki.  _Thank you._ ” I bring the mug to my lips again, closing my eyes so to hide how wet they have become. I must not cry; I have promised myself I will not. Milk froth touches my nose as I take a deep drink of the chocolate, and it warms me immensely.

“They will be safe,” Loki says. “I promise. It is the least I can do. You are very precious to them.”

“But what can I do for you?” I ask into my mug. “You didn’t … didn’t want me.” Now I am back into the territory of last night, the place where I had Ambátt a half hour ago. “Why do you want me here?” I feel like I am treading circles now. I’m getting incredibly sick of treading circles. And sick of the same infuriatingly shallow answers they yield:

“You’re here because I’d like you to be my guest,” Loki says.

Fine. Then I will play the long game.

I take the mug from my face and wipe the froth away with the tip of my finger. “Then may I leave?” The lack of answers and my recent volatile emotional state has made me grumpy.

“You may do as you wish here, Sigyn.”

I take the mug with me, as well as a loaf of bread: one made of rye with walnuts and raisins and sprinkled with poppy seeds. I wrap the bread up in a napkin made of some sort of thick material and head to the door. All I want to do is leave.

“Sigyn.”

I turn back to Loki. He rests his knuckles on the edge of the table and says, “I’ll be in the solar if you wish for my company at any point.”

I give a somewhat awkward curtsy, what with my mug and bread. “Thank you, Loki,” I say. “For everything.”

Norns, I was incredibly rude leaving him there, but it is done now. I make my way up the stairs, picking off pieces of my loaf and nibbling on them. I am only panting lightly when I get to the door to my rooms —  _my rooms_ , I think incredulously. As soon as I am inside, I put my things down and fall against the wall, burying my head in my hands. I feel as if everything is going horribly wrong — from my behaviour just now to my stupidly placid reactions in regards to being taken away from my family and this whole situation. I hit the wall, choking on a sob and fighting back my tears in my beautiful dress made of stars.

* * *

I spend most of the day in my rooms, sitting on the floor by the window in the suite and contenting myself with looking at the landscape. I find thick sheets of paper in a drawer and charcoal pencils. I haven’t been able to draw on paper for years, and even when we could afford to buy paper every now and again, drawing was never something I found unprecedented joy in; rather I did it in an effort to relieve boredom. My sketches are messy and incomplete, but drawing the Troll Wall and the trees and scribbling out the north lights helps to take my mind off the recent, and sometimes rather disastrous, events over the past two days.

When it is light enough, I decide to take my before-mentioned walk outside, merely to scout the tree line and see the north lights above my head rather than through a sheet of glass. It is also the perfect opportunity for me to just try and forget about my embarrassment from this morning. Ambátt, who has brought me lunch — baked fish stuffed with herbs and salt with a side of steamed asparagus — along with another mug of rich hot chocolate, agrees to my preposition with a smile.

“You’ll enjoy what Saumakona has made, my lady,” she says with a wink as she leads me to the dressing chamber. I push down the instinctive objection.

I had thought that whatever wonder Saumakona had managed to make me now, it couldn’t possibly out-do my gown and my star dress. How wrong I am. What Ambátt takes from the wardrobe makes me gasp in delight. Along with winter clothes made of sturdy hides, thick wool, and furs, Saumakona has made me a cloak. White wolf fur lines the collar and sides, and the fabric itself is made of fine, dark blue wool. It feels warm to the touch, and I see tiny little runes stitched into the piece. A magic cloak. I have been given a cloak lined with wolf fur and runemagic. I hug the thing to me, burying my face into it. I am so grateful for it I almost forget my promise not to cry.

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper.

“I shall pass your sentiment on to Saumakona, my lady,” Ambátt says, smiling at my delight. “Now come. We’ll try the other things.”

Eventually, I am standing in the centre of the room, rugged up in my new clothes and feeling as if I am wearing fur armour for all the protection from the cold it will offer. Trousers — which I can count on my fingers for the numbers of times I have worn them in my life — sturdy boots made with leather and lined with feather down, a fur parka, several shirts, and the rabbit fur gloves I wore yesterday.

“They’re wonderful,” I breathe, turning in front of the mirror so to examine myself at very possible angle. “I love them.” I am bursting to go outside.

“I’ll take you to the gate,” Ambátt says, smiling I can only guess at my enthusiasm as she hangs my star dress on the wardrobe door.

“Thank you.”

The key to my rooms goes into an inside pocket of my jacket, and I pull the cloak further around me, burying my ears into the fur. The clothes are so warm I feel hot by the time we are at the door leading to the entrance cavern. Ambátt opens the door, and the chime of the icicles on the cavern ceiling is a background noise. I test my boots on the stairs and, unlike yesterday when I walked up these stairs in my frictionless shoes, my feet do not slide out from under me — these are true cold weather boots that have proper soles for the ice and snow. I bound down the stairs, giddy as a child at yule.

“Lift the gate, Dyravörðurinn!”

My excitement only surmounts as the portcullis hinges groan. I run across the cavern, free in my trousers and my cloak flowing behind me like wind.

“My lady!”

I stop and turn back. Brúðguminn jogs up behind me, a smile on his face and he drops into a shallow bow. “Your clothes look much better than those yesterday, my lady,” he says.

I nod, giving him a smile. “Thank you. I think so too. How is Blíðýr?”

“He’s fine. Sleeping like the lazy arse he is, but he’s fine.” Brúðguminn’s smile falters a little as he seems to realise what such an attire means. “Uh, you’re going outside?”

I nod again.

“Then I have a message from Lord Loki,” Brúðguminn says. “He says be careful; he’s gone out hunting and the forest can get a bit … stirred up.”

“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll keep that in mind, Brúðguminn.”

“My lady! You said my name right!”

I laugh as he walks off, fingers interlaced behind his head. I am itching to go outside, and so when the heavy doors swing open, I am running. The ice and rock gives way to snow, and it is wonderful considering my shoes are now much more suitable for the weather. I hold my arms out to the sides, watching in fascination as the north lights illuminate the white fur of my cloak blue and green and pink. There is a slight breeze that plays across my face, catching my hair and tangling the ends.

I make my way towards the tree line a half kilometre off so I can better get a view of the castle.

It splits the sky like a huge, dark thunderbolt. It is perched on a lone boulder, a building of solitude that dominates the landscape. The walls are made of the same dark stone as the interior and are also run through with icy veins. Façades of the castle are fitted with sheets of glass — the windows, I realise — and the whole thing tapers into a single spire, the top of which is completely made of glass. I want to go up there at a later point. I must, for the view would be unlike any other, even the one my rooms offer. The forest is an unbroken belt of green. Two roads split the trees. One heads to the south, and it is a single white line travelling for kilometres upon kilometres. The forest is so extensive that I cannot see the end of the road. The second leads north, directly to the Troll Wall. I turn south, Loki’s advice ringing in my ears.

It must have snowed last night, for there are no footprints. In fact, mine are the only ones that are visible. Brúðguminn said Loki was outside as well, so where are his? I admit that it unsettles me a little. My feet barely sink into the snow — as there is rock under my feet where I stand — and my breath steams on the air. Once I am a little ways from the castle, I merely flop onto the snow, lying on my back and looking at the sky. The sun barely skirts the horizon, and so I am offered a clear view of the stars and the galaxies and north lights. It is magical, like something from a story. My clothes are so warm around me I do not feel like getting up, and I find myself dozing sometimes I am so comfortable.

I sit up a while later, despite the way my muscles complain, relaxed as they are. I take a few breaths before I get to my feet, walking towards the trees.

They are mostly pine, the scent filling the air and dead needles and loose pebbles crackle under my boot. I can also hear the chitter of animals. I think back on the warnings that Loki gave me at breakfast about the creatures that inhabit the forest; I wonder whether or not some of the sounds come from them. I wouldn’t know, as I have no idea what half of them were, much less remember what they’re called. There are squirrels, birds, and some strange thing I have never seen before amongst the branches. There is a path a little to my right, and I cross to it. It is strangely free of snow, or muddy trucks.

And then I see something that completely steals my attention.

It is a huge tree; an ancient pine that would take at least ten people to reach around and touch hands if so wished. The needles of the tree area dead brown, and the ground at the base of the trunk is littered with a carpet of them. But what is so strange about this tree is the rune cut deep into the bark: three feet tall and weeping frozen sap. It is made of three lines — one longer than the other two that point upwards to the left. I run my fingers over it, frowning a little. Why is it here? What does it mean? It has an ominous vibe to it, and I remember the runestone set Mother owns; it too had some  _otherworldly_  feel to it. I back away, pulling my cloak tightly around my shoulders before I make my way back to the open field. The skin on the back of my neck tingles the entire walk out of the forest, and I am glad to see the sky again.

I want to go back inside now, and so I strike out across the snow, making my way towards the still open doors and portcullis. I am almost there when I see Loki rounding the castle’s rock. But what catches my attention is the doe slung across his shoulders. He holds her as if she weighs nothing, her head lolling to the side and her beautiful liquid eyes glassy. A single deep wound in her throat is the only physical blemish on the carcass. Loki spots me at the same time I see him and he stops, adjusting his grip on the forelegs before he nods in my direction and disappears from where he came. I am utterly confused by his behaviour.

“Lady!”

I am glad for Brúðguminn’s shout, and I hurry inside.

* * *

Once again, I have dinner with Loki, and we manage to make small talk about subjects that hold no real importance. Neither of us mention the earlier encounter outside, and I think he is as secretly glad for it as I am. I wonder what he was doing with the doe, and where she is now. Whether she is laid before me on the table, waiting for me to eat her. I have been given another dress for tonight — this one a light blue made of a thin, sheer fabric that billows like water around me whenever I take a step. My hair, unlike last night, is loose, and the crooked rune hangs around my neck. I wipe my mouth with a napkin, finished with the steak and kidney pie. It was milky and full of rare meat — a personal favourite combination — not to mention how the pastry quite literally crumbled in my mouth.

“I found a rune cut into one of the trees,” I say.

Loki cocks his head to the side. “Did you?”

“Do you know why it was there?”

Loki shrugs. “This castle was built a long time ago; centuries before either of us were born. The people who built it probably put it there. There’re other trees that have them too; it’s not a rare sight here.”

Oh. “Alright.”

A part of me isn’t satisfied with his explanation, though. The carving looks much newer than what Loki claims. But this place is full of strange things — the way the servants appear so suddenly when they are nowhere to be found when one goes looking for them, the magic pulsing in the walls … the visitor who came to me last night. What is one more thing? I obviously won’t get the answers I seek; I haven’t received any I have sought.

“Loki, I’m exhausted. May I retire?”

“Sigyn, please. I’ve already told you that you may do as you wish here. You may retire when you feel fit.”

I give a quick curtsy and head to the doors. I walk up the stairs slowly, merely enjoying the exercise. I am comfortable enough in this castle that I will not sprint between my destinations and quiver behind barred doors. My family is being cared for — sworn upon honour — and I have been promised several times that I will come to no harm here. I must trust in that.

I enter my rooms, closing the door behind me and putting the key on the table. “Ambatt?” I call, my voice sounding loud to my ears. Whenever Loki has asked for a servant in such a manner, they have come right away. I feel stupid. Loki is the lord and master of this house, and so of course they are always close by.

“My lady?”

I jump as Ambátt comes up behind me.

“My lady, I am sorry for startling you so.”

I wave a hand. “No, no … it’s fine. I just … I wanted help getting the dress off. And I would also like a bath if that is alright.”

“Of course.”

She leads me to the bathroom, turning on the taps before coming to help me out of my things.

“Can I wash myself?” I ask.

Ambátt has my dress folded over her arm, leaving my under things to me. “Of course. I shall be waiting outside, my lady. Do you wish to retire now, or stay awake a little longer?”

“I’ll retire now.”

“Very good, my lady.”

I choose to put the lavender in the bath water again, tracing my finger over the stitches that make up the first letter. When the bath is almost full, I take off the rest of my clothes, pleased to see my stomach protruding somewhat with all the food in it. It is also good to wash myself without someone helping me. It makes me feel more independent, more so like myself. I spend a long time sitting in the bath, draining and refilling it in fractions as the water cools. I don’t bother washing my hair, and I make patterns across the water’s surface with the foam as I watch the north lights, trying to once more recreate their movements. Ambátt checks on me once, and it is soon after this that I get out, wrapping one of the fluffy towels around myself and stepping into the next room.

My nightgown has been freshly washed, and the softness of the wool against my skin is exquisite. I gush to Ambátt about the landscape as I get into bed, curling my toes in pleasure at the warmth I find under the blankets.

“Are the north lights here all year round? How many colours can they appear as?”

“This is a lucky time for the north lights,” Ambátt tells me, moving the warming pan under the blankets. “You’ve come at just the right time. There are quite a few nights where they don’t appear this far south, or this vibrantly.”

“ _This far south?_ ”

“Yes, my lady. Although we may be far north, we still have Jotunheim in front of us, and their lands stretch for Norns knows how far.”

“Has anyone ever successfully come back from the furthest point in Jotunheim?”

“From Utgard? Yes. The final battle in the war was fought in Utgard. I have heard … well, I must not speak ill of Lord Loki or his people, but I have heard that Utgard is a desolate place today. The queen … she is a recluse, and no one has seen much of her since the end of the war.”

“Do you know why Loki’s so … adverse to other frost giants?”

Ambátt shakes her head. “I do not, but there has been a lot of pain in the lord’s past.”

Is that …? I think I may have found some glimpse of an answer as to why I am here, but it’s unsettling. Perhaps I am here to act as a balm.

“Thank you, Ambátt,” I say quietly. “I’d like to go to sleep now.”

“Yes, my lady. Goodnight.” Her fingers stray over my hand before she takes the warming pan away. She deposits the coal in the fireplace and leaves.

Again, I lie awake in the too big bed, trying to get to sleep. The softness is very distracting, and it annoys me. I’d thought I would have gotten used to it after a night, but apparently, it is not to be. Still, I try, and I place a pillow between my knees again, wrapping my arms around another and closing my eyes. My thoughts go to the visitor, the companion I had shared the bed with last night. Was it a onetime thing, or will it happen again?

My question is answered almost an hour later. I am almost asleep when I hear the door open. I curl into myself when I hear the footsteps, and do so even more when they become muffled by the fur rug. The mattress dips as my visitor climbs onto the bed next to me, sighing heavily as they readjust themselves. I am quiet as I wait for something to happen, my heart hammering. I am not as afraid as I was last night, but I can’t help but tense a little as the hand is placed on my side again. The visitor stiffens, but relaxes somewhat as I do not move again. The pillows next to my head are pulled away as the visitor brings them closer, and their thumb runs a stroke over my ribs. What would have made me protest at another time in another context at the gesture is mysteriously absent now, and I cannot help but wonder what is so different.

If I dream that night, then I do not remember it, but when I wake up, I am once again alone. Another flower rests on the mattress, this one a white carnation. I put it in the vase next to the rose without a further thought.

* * *

The next week develops a routine. I meet Loki for breakfast every day where I eat and he watches me. Talking is, admittedly, getting easier now we’re getting to know each other better. Afterwards, I go back to my chambers to bathe and wait until it is lighter outside, filling the time talking to Ambátt. My wardrobe is expanding every day with a variety of daywear and beautiful gowns to wear come nightfall. I treasure every piece of clothing I am given, and I can only imagine the looks on my sisters’ faces if I could show them what has been gifted to me, most especially at my star dress. I have also taken to looking through the books on the shelf in my suite. Despite the fact I can’t read a word of them, I enjoy the feel of the thick pages between my fingers and find it relaxing to flick through them. One of the books I have has particularly grabbed my attention because of the hand drawn illustrations. The flowers have been depicted with the utmost care, splashes of watercolour paint brightening their leaves and words surrounding the pictures. I assume they detail on the flowers, but what they talk about exactly is a mystery to me — where they grow, their purposes, medicinal properties, I can only guess. It is a book I often bring to bed at night to look at the pictures. When the sun comes up, I take a walk around the castle grounds, admiring it and the landscape. As Loki said, I find more runes scored on several pine trees, all of them ancient, and all of them bearing the same feeling of foreboding. After I return, I then take lunch in the solar.

This is when I see Loki again, and I find myself beginning to relax around him much faster than I had first predicted I would. It’s strange, but it feels  _familiar_  being with him, as if this is a pastime we have engaged in for several decades instead of a mere week. We talk of several subjects, from the castle and the surrounding landscape to discussions of other realms, particularly those of Asgard’s allies, Vanaheim, Alfheim, and Midgard. I find that he has travelled widely, and I, who has only ever known Asgard’s kingdom, listen with the utmost fascination of far-flung places I have only heard of in story. I am told of the sagas of the Vanir, told of the elvish songs that can make even the hardest of hearts cry, and the innovation of the mortals of Midgard. In return, I tell Loki of my family and what we do to earn our way in life. I think it to be terribly dull and tedious, but Loki listens to my every word with rapt attention. I do not know whether he listens to be polite or because he is genuinely interested, I can only guess. But he watches me closely as I talk. I do not think he means to openly stare, and at first, I found it discomforting, but now it is normal. I fear for myself sometimes, fear how I have become so utterly lax around him that I do not complain about these things, but I cannot help but feel that niggle in my mind telling me that something here is speaking of … of home.

Then I return to my chambers to prepare for dinner. Every night I have a new dress made for me by Saumakona and in a variety of styles and colours that compliment me well, but, I notice, I am never given a green dress of any shade. I feel as if Saumakona will make every colour of the rainbow there is to offer before she will make a green dress. In my encounters with her, I have come to ask whether I could have a dress made of the bolt of forest green, but, every time without fail, she will politely refuse my request. It takes me three times to learn to stop asking for it.

Dinner, as always, is wonderful. I find absolute delight in not only trying as much as I possibly can from every dish, but to watch as my belly begins to fill out. Fat is appearing on my bones again — not much, but I am starting to look healthier every day. It will take a fair few weeks before I am anything approaching a comfortable weight, but it is thrilling to start seeing the road I am headed towards. Loki always sits at the opposite side of the table to me, and always he wears his leather trousers backed with the mail and the wolf cloak, but not a crumb of food will pass his lips. I have tried also to persuade him to eat with me, but I have gained no further ground. I promise myself on the third day that I will not stop asking until he eats with me — I grow weary of eating alone in company.

We then retire to the solar for perhaps a half hour where I find myself basking in his company before I turn towards my rooms. Ambátt helps me to bed, and after she leaves, I cannot help but lie awake until my visitor, my companion, comes. I have never seen them, not even from the corner of my eye. Once I tried to roll over, but the urge dissipated as soon as it entered my mind.

 _Why turn over?_  I had thought.  _It’s too dark to see._

When morning came, I was almost certain some influence had been pressing on me. But a part of me came to see the anonymity as a child’s game of mystery, and one that I had no desire to solve. I almost drive myself to tears when I think of the person this place has made me become — relaxed and lethargic when it comes to my instinct and self-preservation, to the point where I entertain thoughts of running away so I can gain something of myself back. There is too much magic in this place than I am fully comfortable with. These thoughts always chase me into sleep.

When I wake, there is always a flower next to me — a different kind every day — and I place it into the vase. They must be enchanted, I think, because the petals do not wither; they look as fresh as the day I found each of them. What I have now is the beginning of a vibrant storm of colour. The rose and the white carnation take a centre place, and other flowers, including blooms of forsythia, pink camellia, acacia blossom, and lily-of-the-valley, surround them. Every morning, I find myself anticipating what my visitor will leave next, and a part of that giddiness makes me feel sick.

I grow torn in hating and loving the castle. I miss my family and I long for the return of my old self, but yet I find simple delight in being in Loki’s company, whether it had be talking about Vanir sagas or sitting in silence as I look at pencil illustrations in a book. It is beautiful and peaceful here, and I do not know what to do with myself. I try my best to occupy myself so to offer a form of distraction, so I will not drive myself to madness or depression for the questions in my head.

I am sitting in the solar looking at my book one afternoon when Loki speaks from the opposite couch:

“Sigyn, can you read?”

I look up, startled at first, before I lift my chin. “May I ask why you’re interested?”

“You can’t, can you?”

I purse my lips and look away, focusing my entire attention once again on the book.

“It’s your eyes that give the game away; they don’t move as a reader’s do,” Loki says.

I scoff. “And  _you_  can read?”

“Aye. Several sets of glyphs.”

I try my best to hide my reaction. Loki, a barbarian frost giant, can read. And in more than one language.

“Is one of them chicken scratch?” I bite out. Loki has put me into a bad mood. I had thought once that being able to read numbers was a talent worthy of the highest of praises and, without meaning to I suspect, Loki has trodden most efficiently on my pride.

“Many languages look like chicken scratch written in their native runes,” Loki says. He sighs heavily. “Would you like to learn?”

I stare. “What?” The words sink in. “B-but am I not too old?”

Loki shakes his head. “No. No one’s ever too old. I can teach you, Sigyn. The question is would you like to learn?”

I am nodding eagerly before he can finish his sentence. I feel like I am taking everything that has been given to me without ever paying back, but this is one opportunity I will not let slip past me. If Loki demands a price for this later, then I will pay it. Even if he … asks for me? I bite my lip and hope he won’t.

Loki tilts his head to the side before he stands. “Come.”

I snap the book shut and follow him to the huge table along the edge of the room. Sheets of parchment, inkwells, and quills are set neatly on the table. I wonder if Loki works in here sometimes, doing what I would have no idea, but even so…. He pulls up two chairs.

“Are you left or right-handed?” Loki asks.

“Um, I prefer using my left hand,” I say, fidgeting a little.

Loki bids that I take the seat on the right. I do so, and he sits himself on the other one. We are half an arm’s length apart, and I can feel the chill of his flesh even from here.

Loki writes runes out on a sheet of parchment and, once he is done, moves his hand to point at the first one at the same time I do. Our fingers brush, and it is difficult to say who jumps the most. It’s like the most horrible of clichés, but there is no spark of attraction between us; I jump because his fingers are freezing.

The bump of Loki’s throat dips before he says, “First I’ll teach you how to read them. Then if you so wish, I’ll teach you their meanings in terms of their properties in the practices of  _seiðr_.”

I’m glad he’s ignored the brush, for his demeanour now is business-like and the opposite to mine — blushing and fidgeting.

“The first of the Futhark runes is  _Fehu_.”

I mouth the rune, tasting the name of it on my tongue.  _Fehu_. I learn the sound for it — something that requires me to take my bottom lip between my teeth — and he passes me a piece of parchment and a quill. He teaches me how to hold it, positioning my fingers correctly — and the result is rather uncomfortable; Loki tells me it is simply because I am not used to holding things as I am now — and how to load the ink. Then, I write the rune out two-dozen times. My fingers cramp horribly throughout the process, and my runes are shaking and awkward. But it is halfway through my first dozen when I realise what it is exactly I’m writing.

“This is the rune I saw on the tree,” I say, “but this one’s backwards.”

“The one on the tree’s reversed,” Loki corrects.

“Why?” I ask.

“That rune was made to enhance and bind  _seiðr_ ,” Loki says. “The runes are powerful tools, and their influences and meanings can be affected by how they’re written. What may help when a rune is written one way may prove disastrous when marked reversed.”

I tuck that information away.

By the time I have finished writing  _Fehu_  twenty-four times, my fingers ache and are covered with ink.

“Not a bad start,” Loki says, twisting his own fingers. To my utmost surprise, the ink vanishes.

“You can use magic?” I breathe.

“Yes.” He doesn’t offer any further explanation. “The  _Fehu_  rune is the first of the twenty-four runes used by Asgard. When I was learning, I was told that it would do me good to associate objects with the runes so I better remember their sounds.  _Froðr._  Feather.” He sketches a crude drawing of a feather beneath the  _Fehu_  rune on his parchment. Other words run through my mind that share the same sound:  _fótr_ , _fróðleikr_ , _firar_.

I voice these to Loki, and we spend the next few minutes thinking of other words starting with  _Fehu_ , and it becomes a game to see who can think of the longest word. Loki eventually wins with  _fóstrbrœðralag_ , but I notice as he says it he becomes quiet and withdrawn.

It means  _foster-brotherhood_.

“Do you … do you want to stop?” I ask.

Loki starts and looks at me. “No. It’s nothing.”

Nothing that evidently means a lot to him.

I turn back to my work.

* * *

As the next week goes by, I learn six more runes. I see them sometimes when I peruse the book, and I feel irritated with myself mostly. The words are now so much closer to me, but feel even more inaccessible. I become impatient in my learning, almost begging at times for Loki to teach me more. But he is adamant on me taking my time, telling me that trying to learn a sophisticated skill such as reading too quickly will only exhaust me to the point where I might even start to dread learning. Part of me scoffs at the very idea, but as the days go by, I start to see sense to his reasoning. Sometimes I feel like screaming with frustration simply because I feel as if I  _can’t do it_.

 _Slowly, slowly, Sigyn_.

One thing that has become more and more obvious to me the longer I spend with Loki is that he is intelligent, extraordinarily so. I had never expected such a thing from a frost giant of all creatures. There has always been some part of me convinced that they were an idiotic people, something to match their barbaric ways. He is kind as well, but his heart is hard; he hides many things, and I wonder sometimes if what he shows me of himself is a façade. Loki shows me also how to write my name, and I spend a fair few days simply writing it over and over, amazed in a way that something so central to who I am is being put onto paper. It feels like the divulging of a secret in a way, putting a piece of my heart on show for the realms to see.

Two weeks after I have arrived at the castle, there comes the first break of my routine. When I come down to breakfast, it is to an empty hall. I freeze upon the threshold, confused. Every morning Loki has been seated at the table, waiting for me. Only Kokkurinn is there, setting out the latest of yet another feast.

“Kokkurinn,” I say, touching him gently on the arm as I step up behind him, “have you seen Loki today?”

Kokkurinn turns to me and shakes his head. “I haven’t, my lady. It’s not like him to be like this.”

My heart jumps. “Is there something wrong? Is he ill?”

“I don’t know, my lady. But don’t worry yourself. No doubt the lord will be here soon.”

I am reassured only a little. I sit down and after waiting for ten minutes with no sign of Loki coming, I start eating. It is incredibly lonely. I eat slowly, half-expecting Loki to come through the doors any second, but he doesn’t. I finish after a good forty-five minutes and, when it is obvious that Loki will not come, I stand and leave. I shiver as I step into the main stairwell, tucking my hands under my armpits.

_Where is he?_

Kokkurinn told me not to worry, and, despite everything my gut tells me, I do worry for him. I go to the solar; perhaps Loki is there.

He isn’t.

I sit in my usual spot on what I now consider, in my head, as my couch. I open my book and look at the pictures, relaxing my expression into one of nonchalance. I look at the captions beneath the flowers, and I find I can read small words — connectors, Loki called them.  _Eða_ , or  _and_ , is one of them. But I am restless. I find myself glancing towards the door every five minutes. And then it is every two minutes, and then every few seconds.

 _Stop it_ , I snap to myself, adjusting my position and curling my legs up beneath me.  _Kokkurinn said he would be fine._

I bury my nose in the book, blocking my view of the door with it. I have to give Loki his space, as he has given me mine. But that worry is eating at me. It is silly and irrational, and my breaths become a little shaky. I need to push Loki from my mind. Perhaps he’s gone out hunting again. Yes, that must be why.

But hunts can go wrong.

I put my head into my hands, groaning loudly before I stand up.

_Stupid, stupid girl._

I tuck the book under my arm. I will go looking for him, merely to seek an answer as to whether or not he is well. No, I will take the book as an alibi: I’ll tell Loki I came looking for him because I want some help with the runes. It will let me hide how my heart has opened to him, and it will help me to pretend that is why I have undertaken this endeavour as well. It allows me also to cling to the fear of him that I still harbour deep within me.

I walk into the corridor beyond the solar, looking left and right. When Loki and I have left the solar together, we always head to the staircase. He always turns to walk down whilst I turn to walk up, so that is where I will start. I go to the stairs and hold my skirts around my knees as I hurry down them. Why is it exactly that I am hurrying? The conflict of my wants and instincts are making my head hurt. When I come to the bottom, there are only three places I can go: the hall, the cavern, and the other door I had seen on the day I had arrived which I guess goes beneath the castle. I go to the third door.

The hinges glide open silently, revealing yet another set of stairs. Blue lanterns have been placed along the tightly constricting walls in even spaces; if not for them, I would have been blind. I pad down the stairs as quietly as I can, my breaths long and even as I try to make them as soundless as possible. The tight grip I have on the book is my only source of comfort.

I go far down, down further than I think even the cavern stairs lead. The air becomes stale, and the smell of the damp is pervasive in my nose. I am relieved when the corridor opens up into a small, rectangular area. Five doors are placed evenly along the wall, and faint light spills out of the second last one. I creep forward, feeling like a thief for how quietly I move. The door is slightly open, and low voices eminent from the room. When I come level, I peek inside.

The room is bedecked in finery despite the gloomy environment outside, but it is finery that has been brought to ruin — it is torn and wrecked. A set of two chairs, a low table, a fireplace, and a single bed, have been shredded by claws, the wood cracked and chipped and the fabric of everything sporting huge claw marks. There are no windows. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought a wild animal would have rampaged down here. But I know what happened here straight away: Loki. But why?

Loki is within in the room, sitting in front of a manservant who hovers over his shoulder with some sort of poultice. Loki himself looks terrible; his cloak is gone, flung over the back of the other chair, and as such, there is nothing to hide a rune — no, it is a bindrune; it’s too complex to be a standard rune — on his shoulder blade that I have neither seen nor heard of before. I think at first that it is a brand — the skin is dark blue, blistering, and bleeding black — but there is no sign of burnt flesh around the mark. Bandages litter the ground by Loki’s feet, stained black.

“… bled during the night. You said if I treated the wound with dejyalok leaf, it would heal. Now it’s just worse than it was.”

“I was wrong,” another voice says. This one is steady, full of authority. I cannot see the speaker through the crack, no matter how much I angle myself. “Loki, forgive —”

Loki snarls, and the manservant puts down the pot he holds, bows, and exits through a side door.

“It’s so incredibly easy for you to spout those words yourself, old man, when you are not the one suffering the repercussions,” Loki spits after a moment’s silence. “You’re the one who cast the spell and cut this thing into my back. You two doomed me to this.  _Why did you?_ ” His fingers run over the bindrune, and I put a hand to my mouth to hide my intake of breath as it pulses bright gold. Loki’s yelp of pain reminds me of a dog when its tail is stepped upon. He trembles in his seat, and he looks utterly dejected.

“You know why,” the other says. “For the good —”

“What about  _my_  good?” Loki snaps, gripping his hair and resting his elbows on his knees. His voice is ragged with emotion. “Why should I have to be paying for your poor conduct? Your lapse in judgement? I’m your son….”

My breath hitches, this time loud enough that I can’t hide it.

Loki’s head snaps around and he leaps from his seat. I almost fall as I scramble back. The door is flung fully open, and Loki stands on the threshold, filling it in his anger. His teeth are bared like a savage beast would do and my heart pounds in terror.

“What are you doing here?” he snarls. “How long have you been here?  _What did you hear?_ ” This is not the person I have conversed with over the past two and a half weeks: this is a frost giant full of the fury I have feared since I can remember, one that is capable of delivering the destruction behind him. I cower beneath his wrath.

“I just … I wanted help with …”

“What did you hear?”

I must force my lips to move. “S-something about bleeding, and spellcasting, and your father cutting something on your shoulder. And dooming you to something; I don’t know what.”

Loki’s face pales with my every word. “What else?  _What else?_ ”

“That’s it. I swear that’s it. Loki, my lord, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

His breathing eases, but the fire in his eyes doesn’t vanish. He turns and storms back into the room, taking up his cloak and wrapping it around his shoulders. He stands by the mantelpiece, gripping it tightly and leaning his forehead on the wall. His arms tremble with anger as he closes his eyes, lips moving silently as he counts his breaths. His fingers trace down the backs of several wooden animals on the mantelpiece, and I think it must be to calm himself.

I swallow and creep forward. I peek into the room, but, to my surprise, Loki is alone. Where is the person he was talking to?

“If I may ask, what is that wound, my lord?”

Loki grimaces, but he doesn’t open his eyes. “A reminder.”

“My lord, why didn’t you show me? I could help —”

Loki slams his fist into the mantelpiece, and the wooden figurines rattle; some fall. “Because it’s none of your damn business,” he snaps. “Sigyn, leave.  _Now._ ”

But I have to fix this. I have to. “Please, it’s the least I can do. Loki, I want to help you.” I reach for his arm, but he snatches it back. My lip quivers, and I think of when I did this to him two weeks ago. I feel even more wretched.

“Don’t touch me,” he hisses. “Just leave.”

“I’m worried for you!” I shout. I clamp my mouth shut at once, and Loki looks as stunned as I feel.

But then his face hardens. “You shouldn’t worry about me,” he says. “It is unbecoming.”

“Why? Why is it so unbecoming? Why should I not worry? Is it only because …?” My voice trails off.

“Because?” he breathes. I hear the challenge in his voice, daring me to say what I had only just managed to bite back.

I shrink back as he advances on me, fingers clenching and unclenching. Black blood dots his palm, cut by his claws.

“Is it pity?” he asks. “Pity for the damned creature before you?”

“No, I do not pity —”

“Is this your kindness?” he demands. “To deny what you see me as in your heart?”

I hate how I tremble before him, and so I play the only card I can think of to get me out from under his position of power. “Why bring me here if you are only determined to push me away when I show concern for you?”

The abrupt new direction of the conversation takes Loki off-guard, and he huffs. “I am not something that deserves your concern. I did not tell you about the bindrune for many reasons, one of them being that someone like you should not have to stoop so low so to feel sorry for the likes of what I am: jotun.”

“How dare you?” I whisper hotly. “How dare you say that I shouldn’t know because of your heritage? What is it exactly that you feared from telling me?”

“That is exactly why! Because I don’t want you to fear me!” he shouts. But then he deflates all at once, and his raised fist unclenches to hang loosely by his side. “I don’t want you to think of me as barbaric, as a  _monster_ …. Sigyn please, just go.”

It is only then I realise that Loki loathes himself; deeply. I feel like an idiot and incredibly dense for not realising it sooner. The signs were there from the start — his refusal to eat with me, his condemning of the frost giants at every given opportunity, the way in which he strives to treat me as best befitting a gentleman, how he withdrew into himself when I flinched back from him. I have also noticed he does not look at himself — whether to glance at his hands or going out of his way to avoid reflective surfaces.

“Loki….”

I step towards him again, and he steps back, looking at me with flat, angry eyes. “Get out, Sigyn. I will not repeat myself.”

“I do not fear you,” I lie. If he does not want me to think of him as a monster, then he is doing a very poor job of it. The façade he has put forth to me is cracking, and now I see a well of utter rage and pain beneath his skin. I may not now the whole story for his reasons for such a thing, but I know enough to see that he is a deeply wounded creature. Is it my kindness? To feel pity —  _no_ , I think,  _to feel compassion_  — for him?

“You do not need to lie to me, Sigyn,” Loki says. “Just look at me. I am not something that garners pity. None of my kind are. We are creatures of the dark, and those wretched things never should inspire pity.”

I would like to say that it isn’t true, but it is the word  _pity_  that keeps my mouth shut. Outright agreeing with him is sure to get me nowhere fast, perhaps even push him away more seeing as how adverse to pity he is. “Loki,” I say instead, “I will not pity you. After my mother’s … accident, I pitied her. She told me pity was useless. So I will help you. In any possible way I can. You don’t have to tell me what the bindrune is, or who you were talking to or why, but what I would like is some communication between us.”

“If you want communication,” Loki says, “then you have already hit the nail on the head as to the reason why you’re here: to … to  _help_  me.”

I blink. “How?” He hasn’t  _told_  me anything.

“Sigyn, I am a selfish creature,” he says. The gentle side of him is quickly replacing his anger, and if not for my pounding heart and shaking hands, I wouldn’t have thought that he had I had just witnessed the maelstrom of his rage. “Your presence is all I require. I promise that is all I want of you. I want your company in a purely platonic sense. I have been so lonely for so long, Sigyn. You don’t know what that kind of thing does to a person.”

Proud, stubborn fool. From what I saw, he is strong, yes, but he is not strong enough to bear the weight he insists on taking on his shoulders. But I will wait. If I want to help him as I wish to, then I must first gain his trust. Trust I have just shattered into a million pieces by coming down here and stumbling in on something I should never have known about, much less seen and heard.

“Is that all you wish of me?” I ask, my mouth dry. “Truly?”

“Truly.”

But even after days and nights of nothing happening in terms of the company I had been expecting of him — namely in the claiming of my body — and the reassurances from both Loki and the servants that I am safe from harm, I cannot help but still hold some of those thoughts in my mind. Part of me is still convinced he wants more from me than to simply talk with him.

“Thank you,” I say. And then, to my utmost surprise, I hug him.

It is a hesitant hug, stiff and awkward for the both of us, but it is simply the best I can do for him right now. And then I let go. The space between us grows cold and unfriendly as I step away, a little flustered. I hadn’t planned to do that, and Loki too is somewhat shocked by the impromptu action.

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I’ll go.” I turn to the door, my shoulders hunched. I do not look back at him as I step outside.

“Sigyn,” he says just before I close the door. “You’re too good to me.”

“No,” I say, “you’re too good to me.”

“A monster? Good to you?”

“I promise that whatever you think of yourself, whatever you have done to me within the past day — whether it be shouting at me or snarling,” I say, “know that what you have done for both my family and myself are hardly the actions of a monster.”

I do not miss the disbelief rife within his eyes as the door clicks shut.

The flower I find on my bed the next morning is a beautiful, snow-white tulip.


	4. The Weeks

_It was too close. Far too close. But nothing was found out, and so the bargain stands. The Queen_ _’s discontent for the near miss is a constant presence in the back of my mind; her wish to see everything I strive for fall to ruin is astonishingly powerful. But it seems to be a want that will not be sated for now._

_Despite everything, my behaviour then and now, Sigyn opens to me, and the bindrune_ _’s power begins to weaken. Utter joy coursed through my blood when I felt the ropes that have constricted my chest since the requirements of the bargain were set, loosen. I felt that I could’ve climbed to the castle’s topmost spire and howled, wolf-like, of my happiness to the north lights. But the reality of the situation is that it was only the tiniest of shifts; I’m still bound tight. And more so, I can feel the Queen’s frustration that the spells are becoming undone. For the first time in ten years, I begin to have a shred of hope._

* * *

Loki, I learn, is well schooled in the art of sullenness. I think as well I am not helping the situation. Despite my best efforts, it takes three weeks for me to stop jumping around him after what happened below the castle. I tried to talk to him during breakfast, but when he only answered in single words, I learn to stop pestering him. I eat in utter silence and keep my eyes downcast. The only thing could say to him for four days, simply for jangling nerves, was a greeting, and whether or not he will eat with me, the answer to which was always, “No.” My reading and writing lessons were halted also, and I spent those four days practising the runes I had already learnt on my own. It was incredibly lonely. On the fifth day, I apologised once more, and we started speaking again in tentative conversations.

“Will you force me to leave?” I had asked a week after, what I refer to as in my head, the Incident. We had been sitting in the solar, and I had been halfway through writing out another set of runes.

“No,” Loki had said.

But I was curious. “Can I leave if I wish?”

“I’d be greatly adverse to it.” It was the first answer he had given me for days that wasn’t a single word.

Part of me had wished to leave just for a second, and purely in the pursuit of spite. But the thought of what might befall my family if I break the bargain I have with Loki, as well the memory of his despair and the debate we had about pity and compassion, squashed the urge out. I will gain his trust again, and I will help him. I strive to be civil.

“I won’t leave,” I had said. Then, not wishing to break what delicate peace we had re-established, I had continued, “This rune is _Kenaz_ , yes?”

“ _Kenaz_ ,” Loki had confirmed, taking the change in subject without the bat of an eye.

Other than these two times of day, he speaks little to me, no matter how much I try. And because I have nothing to distract me from it, I start to think more and more of my family, and homesickness eats at my heart.

Those were the weeks when I started to stay outside for longer, for at least I could _pretend_ that I was being lonely by choice. The sounds of the forest were my new companions, as were its occupants. I find it impossible to grow cold because of all my clothes. As such, I find some measures of joy in the life I now lead, full of riches, food, education, and yet certain monotony, boredom, and ever-present fear.

Today, as I crouch down in the snow to write my name there, I am thinking of that conversation in the solar. It was only after the Incident that I had fully realised how little I knew about Loki. When I had asked him if I could have left the castle, his body language had been such that it was clear to me he was used to getting his own way — how his fists had clenched, the tense set of his jaw, and how it had contrasted with the flippant tone he had used told of that. Ambátt’s previous comment as well alluding to Loki’s past proves true — the world has been cruel to him. He never talks of it, and it may as well have been that he sprung from the aether as he was a few seconds before I saw him on my doorstep the night I left. I no longer fear the savage frost giant: I fear the lack of knowledge I have regarding Loki.

I find it ironic that I fear more what I can see rather than what I cannot; that I fear what is in the light than what is shrouded by darkness. I fear my night companion less than I fear Loki.

A flash catches my eye. I look up, squinting through the trees. When I cannot catch the glint again, I stand, padding through the snow. Although it is impossible, I think that the reflection came from a piece of metal rather than the ones I often see of ice. Branches snap in my face as I push them aside, and I pull my parka up over my nose. My foot finds even ground, uncluttered with twigs and little debris. A path. A stone path. There is something here.

It is a bit of a fight to get through the branches obscuring the path, but I think it worth the effort, for it wasn’t ice that caught my eye, or metal — it was glass. A stone wall stands in the middle of the forest, containing a stained-glass window whose half-shattered images tell only part of a story. I am struck dumb.

“What is this?” I whisper to myself.

I run my fingertips over the stone; it is very old. Winter moss grows between the bricks, frozen beneath my gloves. Parts of the stone have cracked from the cold, and it is shiny with ice. The wall is overgrown with moss, and there is a pine growing over the stone in one part, roots straddling the wall like a rider on a horse’s back. I move towards the tree, and I can now see that the wall extends beyond my sight and deeper into the woods. I follow it around, keeping one hand on the wall so not to lose it. After about ten minutes, I only just start to see how big the site is. The wall I found is only a tiny part of the building, and it takes more than an hour to walk around what is clearly an outer wall. In its day, it would have matched the castle in size. Half-broken spires reach to the sky, stone laying around their feet. Rotted doors barely hang from their hinges, and more windows than I can count dot the walls. I think also that I catch a glimpse of a silver stag within the ruins at one point too, but it is gone when I try to get a better look.

I am forced to turn back as the light begins to fade, and as the pine growing over the wall comes back into view, I find the path and head back to the castle. My mind is whirling, wondering whom the ruins once belonged to, and who built them.

* * *

“I heard that you found the ruins.”

I look up from my plate. As has become the norm, Loki and I had sat in utter silence through dinner, and this sudden break in routine makes my heart skip a beat. There has been tension bubbling beneath the surface between us for days now, for we are both upset in our own ways about what had happened. Perhaps this is something Loki is grasping at to, finally, the break the ice. I take it, for I do not know when another opportunity will come.

“I found something,” I say.

I wonder where Loki heard of my discovery today; I had told Ambátt about the ruins, and I suppose the gossip had spread through the staff and found its way to Loki’s manservant, Þræll — the one who had been with Loki when I accidentally found him beneath the castle — who had told him.

“Was there anything that interested you about them?” Loki asks. He is surprisingly unlike himself tonight, and I take it as a small victory that I am finally getting a reaction out of him. I feel like I am not running into a brick wall now.

“The windows,” I say, twirling my fork in my fingers. “They were stained-glass windows. I have always loved colour.”

“Why is that?”

“It makes me happy.”

We have never had much colour in my house — everything leaning more towards the drab of grey rather than of the bright colours I so adore. In town, there was a shop that sold dyes, and during the Yule time, the already beautiful displays sitting in the window became even more stunning. Patterns of dye had been spread and splashed inside the window, making swirls and knots the eye had a difficult time of following from a distance. I had become so entrenched by the display once that I had left my family for more than three hours when I was young, unaware they had moved on from the window. Needless to say, I was relieved when we had been reunited.

I wonder now if the house they have moved into, bought with the money Loki has given them, is full of colour. I hope it is.

“Is that why your dresses are so bright?” Loki asks, bringing me from my musing.

I look at what I am wearing now — a gown of deep purple satin etched with silver thread — and twist some of the fabric between my fingers. I smile. “They are made even more beautiful by the colours, yes.”

“I can’t see them,” Loki says so quietly I almost miss his words. I tear my gaze away from the gown, looking at him curiously. “I can only glimpse them, as if they lie behind a mist.”

I open my mouth a little, confused. How does he know what I see if his vision is different from mine? He would not know unless he has experienced how I see before. But it is impossible. It must have been a slip of the tongue, or perhaps something he has heard in the past, that Æsir and jotnar perceive colour differently.

But his melancholy mood is left behind in a blink. He gives a bittersweet smile. “I thought that we should explore these ruins tomorrow.”

My eyebrows rise. “‘We’?” I ask, trying not to sound too thrown by the suggestion.

“We,” Loki confirms. “Is there something wrong with that?”

“Not at all,” I say quickly.

Loki’s smile widens, and he leans back in his seat, crossing his arms at the same time. “Excellent. I haven’t explored them.”

“You haven’t?” I ask, surprised. I’d assumed he would have explored them at some point in the ten years since he’s been here.

“No. Perhaps it is a good thing I haven’t. We’ll be able to rebuild some bridges along the way.”

I want to rebuild bridges with Loki — it is what I have wanted to do since the Incident. It’s perfect.

I straighten my back, taking a deep breath so to better throw my chest out. “Yes. That would be a wonderful idea.”

I ignore the part of me that desperately wants to get to know him better so to satisfy that deep familiarity I feel in my soul being around him. It is that of which I am most terrified of Loki for.

* * *

Although I wake up early the next morning, my companion has already left my bed, and an ounce of disappointment flutters in my chest. The flower they have put next to my pillow is a gardenia. As I put it into the vase, it crosses my mind that I should press them. Enchanted though they may be, I do not know if, or when, the magic will run dry. I have so many books in the suite I can press them all at once and still have enough for the others that are bound to come in the following days. Pressing flowers was something I used to do with Mother, using huge blocks of wood. She loves flowers, and when we could afford seeds, we would plant them behind the house. She taught me their names, how to care for them, and how to press them. I remember when Hnoss was born that she, who always crawled around the house and was only still when sleeping, found the basket of pressed flowers I had put beside the bed the night before. She tore many of them up, and after that, I lost heart for pressing. But now I wish to do so again — these flowers are precious to me.

I push the aching for my family away as I slip out of bed, gulping heavily as I put my feet into my slippers. I creep out of the room and to the suite, the vase of flowers held tight against my chest. After a few seconds rummaging, I find blotting paper in the desk drawers — it’s perfect.

I want to press the thornless rose first. I pull down the fattest book I can find from the shelf and open it in the middle. I put four sheets of blotting paper in a spread page — two for each one — and set about arranging the rose to my liking. Then I close the book gently, setting it on the floor as I take down at least a half-dozen more.

Ambátt finds me a near hour later, the floor around me pilled with books with flowers hidden in their pages.

“My lady, may I ask what you are doing in here?”

I feel a little sheepish as I gesture to the flower I am pressing now — a lily-of-the-valley. “I … I didn’t want to lose them,” I say to my chest.

But Ambátt only smiles and settles herself next to me. “Perhaps, my lady, I can help? You have many flowers.”

“But what about Loki? Is he not waiting?”

“No, not yet. We still have a little more time.”

Between us, the flowers are pressed and nestled between the pages, and we stack the books on top of each other in three towers that come to my waist.

“Can you help me change the pages soon?” I ask Ambátt.

She nods, giving me another smile. “Come, my lady, we best get you ready for today.”

I am dressed in a lightweight garment the colour of a pink sunset, something that is airy and flutters behind me. I wear simple white plimsolls, and they slap against flagstones somewhat as I go downstairs. Loki is waiting for me at the table. It is, as it always is, full of food. A mug of tea sits waiting for me. I come to my chair with a smile, sitting down before reaching for a fresh roll of bread. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Sigyn.”

“Are you excited?”

Loki cocks an eyebrow. “I suppose. The sun won’t be up for another two hours.”

I shrug. Then I ask, “Loki, will you eat with me?”

As he has done every time, he shakes his head. “Sigyn, why keep asking? I won’t change my answer.”

“I can hope,” I say. “Please, know that it doesn’t matter to me what you eat.”

“If you knew, it would,” Loki says, conviction in his tone.

“You eat raw meat,” I say. “You’ve told me.”

“There’s much more to it than that.”

When he offers nothing more, I sigh and bite into the bread. It is still steaming, and warmth floods my mouth. I spread butter inside, and watch as it melts and soaks into the bread.

“So,” I say after a while, “what should we do for the next two hours?”

“What ever you want,” Loki replies. “You’ve learnt all the runes, so perhaps we’ll move on to the next step today.”

“No,” I say. “I’m sure it’ll take a while, and I don’t want to have interrupted lessons.” I think of the tower, of the glass ceiling glittering in the sun as I saw it on the first day. “Can we see the castle? I haven’t seen the whole thing yet, and I want to see the high tower. At the top.”

Loki nods. “What’s up there is a multi-purpose room. It can be a dining room, a lounge, and it’s been known to be used as a ballroom.”

“You’ve had … guests before?”

Loki shakes his head now. “No. This castle wasn’t always in my possession. This was before its initial abandonment.” He lifts his chin and says, “This place has been abandoned and reinhabited for centuries, maybe even millennia. What you see now is just the latest in renovations.” I raise an eyebrow — I did not think that frost giants worked with glass and sought after soft feather beds. But then again, many things I had previous thought about the frost giants Loki has proved false. “I think that the ruins might have once been a part of this castle as well. Perhaps a minster’s or high lady’s complex. Perhaps even something belonging to the son of the original lord.”

“It’s a big complex,” I say.

“Seems as if my last theory would be the better bet.”

Loki stands the moment I have swallowed my last mouthful, and he crosses to my side, holding his hand out for me to take. After two or three heartbeats, I place my palm in his. This is the first time I have touched him since our fingers had brushed during my first reading lesson, and yet again, the cold of his skin makes me shiver. Loki helps me from my seat, and I give him a small smile, stepping out from my chair to join him at his side.

We walk to the doors, our hands still touching. The lines on his skin are little ridges beneath my palm, and he himself shivers now as I trace them with my fingertips. Are they sensitive? I do it again, and sure enough, his jaw twitches, and his arm gives a little spasm. I smile wolfishly.

“Do it again and I’ll leave you here,” Loki says, but there’s no weight or threatened consequence behind his words.

“Make me,” I whisper, and I bring my other hand up, running the tips of my fingers down several lines on his chest. Then I run, bounding up the stairs two at a time. I am laughing as Loki chases after me. My heart is pounding in my chest as I climb stair after stair, holding onto the banister as I turn the tight corners. My plimsolls are terribly slippery, and I discard them after I mount the second floor. I see Loki jump over them out of the corner of my eye as I bolt up to the third floor.

The blue fire of the chandelier’s candles flicker as we run past, running in circles as we climb and climb. Eventually, I run out of stairs. There is a wood and metal door in front of me. Two iron rings are set into it, and I grab one to wrench it open.

When I fly into the room, I think for one wild, breathless second, that I have stepped onto the sky. The walls and ceiling are made of glass, and I can see everything. I freeze by the door, and Loki almost barrels into me.

“Woah, woah, Sigyn! Don’t stop like that.”

But I do not hear him. I am fixated on the north lights and the silver moon, on the galaxies and the stars, on the carpets of forest that stretch into the distance, on the Troll Wall and the river that snakes from behind it into the unknown. I see everything, and I wonder why I have not come up here sooner. It is stunning, breathtaking … glorious.

I sit myself on the floor, pulling my legs to my chest and content to just look and look and look. Loki stands over me for a while before he too sits down, just a little way away, and when I cast a glance at him, his red eyes have turned moonstone white in the light. The mail on his legs casts reflections on the stone floor, like glittering lights seen through a fractured crystal eyepiece.

A silence falls between us as I just drink everything in — every detail, every flicker and shimmer, every shine thrown from the glass pyramid over our heads.

“I can see why this is used as a ballroom,” I say after a while. “Just imagine it … dancing here where only the stars can see you. Just imagine….”

“A beautiful thing.”

Loki is looking at me, but I do not shudder under his gaze, and he reaches a hand forth almost cautiously, capturing a strand of my hair between his fingers. I swallow as he twirls it around his finger. But I have no urge to pull my hair away, or to get up and leave. I merely take a deep breath and wait. He runs his fingers down the strand, pulling it straight before it eventually bounces back into its natural curl when he releases the end.

I lower my eyes to the room itself. The floor is made of polished black marble, and I can feel the scuffmarks of shoes beneath my fingers that were never quite polished out. What I assume to be a storage room lies near the door, kept shut with a bolt. But, not including the glass ceiling, the most prominent feature of the room is the sunken dance floor lying in the centre — a shallow pit one step deep that is perfectly square. I imagine a room full of courtiers, of noble men in their finest armour and bright hair, spinning ladies in endless circles who wear gemstone dresses and diamonds at their throats. Long dead feet clad in leather boots and steel-tipped heels stamp out the rhythm of a song whose last note faded into silence millennia ago.

“Was this part of the original castle?” I ask, my mouth dry.

“If not the original, then one of the earlier restorations,” Loki says. He still looks at me, leaning back on his hands, and his long legs stretched out before him.

“You said this could be a lounge,” I say, wiggling my toes. “Why not make it one?”

“Because then it would be nothing special,” Loki says. “A spectacular sight becomes nothing when viewed regularly, yes?”

After a few seconds, I nod in agreement. Whatever thoughts I had entertained of moving the solar to here are pushed away with these words. It makes sense, of course, and Loki has only given me back the weight I needed so not to float away on a cloud. Besides, keeping this place heated at this time of year would be a nightmare.

“You said you wished to see the castle,” Loki says after almost ten minutes of silence. “This may be a fine place, but there are things to this place other than this room.”

“O-of course,” I say, getting to my feet and almost overbalancing. My head is craned back still, and I take one long, final look at the sky before I follow Loki out of the door.

The rest of the castle, whilst impressive in its own rights, is dull compared to the top floor. The ceilings soar for metres above our heads, and our bare feet are all but silent as we wind through the corridors. Loki points things out to me — sculptures, nooks and crannies, and even a few secret passages. Several of the walls are made of glass, the windows looking onto different façades of the forest. I can see more detail from these windows, see the shadows of individual trees that look like snow ghosts for all they hold on their branches.

I have noticed also that the western side of the castle seems less friendly, the rooms colder and much more menacing. My feet are chilled for the first time, and I curl my toes, rubbing my arms.

“Are you cold?”

I nod. “Sorry.”

“Don’t say sorry for something that isn’t your fault. Lesson for life.” Loki sighs, and he steps a little away from me. “I never come to this wing, so there’s no need to waste heat here. And to me, it feels normal; mild, even.” He looks at his hands for a few heartbeats before he clenches them into fists and drops them to his sides.

“It’s alright,” I tell him.

“Another thing,” Loki says, “when someone makes a mistake, don’t tell them it’s alright; it gives them permission to repeat their actions. Say ‘thank you’ instead.” He laughs darkly. “I sound like a mother hen now.”

“That you do, but it makes sense.” The castle’s shadow is faint against the trees, evidence that the sun is beginning to rise. “I should go and change,” I say. “I wouldn’t want to be hiking around in this.” I indicate the dress.

“Of course not,” Loki says. “Come. I’ll show you back to the main stairwell.”

We are mostly silent as we go back to the main stairwell, simply because there is nothing to say. My plimsolls are gone from where I left them, and I turn to Loki, giving him a tiny nod. “I’ll be there soon.”

“I’ll see you at the gate.”

I smile back at him as I grab my skirts in hand and hurry up a flight of stairs.

“Ambátt,” I call when I enter my rooms, “I’m here.”

Ambátt comes from the dressing chamber, hands clasped in front of her. “Excellent, my lady. Your things have been laid out.”

“Thank you.”

My things have also been freshly laundered, and the undershirts are still warm. They sit snug against my skin, and the heat still lingers as my coat and wolf fur cloak are fastened. I tuck my trouser legs into my boots, tightening the straps before Ambátt hands me the rabbit fur gloves. I’ll put them on just before I go out.

“Kokkurinn has prepared something for your lunch,” Ambátt says as I head towards the stairwell. “He’ll be waiting at the bottom of the stairs.”

I bid goodbye to Ambátt outside my rooms, and I run down the stairs, hair flying behind me.

As Ambátt had said, Kokkurinn is waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, a sturdy leather satchel held in hand. “My lady,” he says, giving to me as I stop beside him, breathless.

“Thank you,” I say, smiling before I head towards the cavern stairs.

Loki waits at the bottom, fastening his wolf fur cloak around his neck. He looks up as I come down the stairs, gazing at my boots in approval. “It’s good you’re not slipping anymore.”

“My other shoes weren’t as well equipped for the ice as these specially-made-for-winter-weather ones are,” I say without missing a beat, lifting a foot to show him the spiked-tread. I feel rather pleased with myself for how quickly I had managed to answer.

Loki snorts and waves his hand. The gate begins to creak open, the hinges protesting loudly. The reflection from the sunlight off the snow is blinding at first, and I throw my arm up to cover my eyes, but the light is still low enough that I have time to adjust. Loki, on the other hand, seems not to be affected by the snow glare. We walk to the gate as the portcullis rises, the chains screeching and rattling as they are pulled tight. There is a high wind today, and bits of ice fly up to bite my cheeks. I shy away, turning my back to the outside.

“Lead the way,” Loki says as I pull on my gloves.

When I am ready, I take a breath before I strike out across the open ground. I tighten my cloak around me to cut out the wind, and I pull the hood up too, retreating far within the fur lining. The part of the forest in which I found the ruins lies directly behind the gate, and so we make our way around the castle. My cheeks feel raw by the time we reach the treeline, and it is a relief to be within it. Now that we have left the open ground behind, the air warms a little. It is still deathly cold, but it is not as bad as it was before. I wonder how the air feels to Loki, dressed only in his trousers and cloak. It must be fine, for when he strides past me, I am sure I look far worse for wear.

We walk side-by-side through the trees, following trails left by forest animals over the centuries. They stand stark against the thin layer of snow on the ground, the dirt kicked up by hooves and feet alike.

“This way,” I say, tugging on the edge of Loki’s cloak when we come to a fork in the trail.

He follows me without comment, and soon the track turns into the stone road. Then I see one of the spires loom from the trees, glittering with coloured glass. I stop in the road and Loki strides forward, running his fingers along the stones. I can hear the scrape of his claws back where I stand. My heart beats a little harder for it, inspired by instinct.

“The front entrance looks to be too unstable to accommodate the doors being moved,” Loki says. I look to the main doors. He’s right — the arch looks to be held up only by the doors. “We’ll go around; find another bit of wall that we can get through.”

“The tree,” I say.

“What?”

“If you go right, there’s a tree that’s straddling the wall. It’s knocked down some of it.”

Loki starts towards it, and I follow him, ducking around branches.

The tree is not hard to find. By the time I can see the base of the trunk, Loki is already squeezing is way through the gap between the wall and the tree. It will be harder for me to get past in my bulky winter clothes. Loki, who is already rapier-thin, has to push himself through. Once he is through, he turns around to me, eyes flicking between the edges of the gap.

“Ah,” he says quietly, spotting the problem.

“I might be able to get through if you hold my cloak, outer jacket, and take my satchel —” I start, but my solutions seem to fall on deaf ears. Loki has grabbed one of the exposed blocks and wrenches it from its place with an impressive show of strength. I feel the ground shudder as it hits. The wall groans and buckles as another block is taken away, and it collapses after four more blocks are pulled from place. Loki jumps back as two feet of the wall to the left of the tree tumble to the ground.

“No need for that now, Sigyn,” Loki says. He’s not even panting, much to my admiration. I had heard that the jotnar were strong, sometimes even stronger than the Æsir, and here is the proof of such a claim before my eyes. “Come on; we’ll lose the light if we linger any longer.”

I step through the gap in the wall.

The ruins beyond the outer wall are eerie and silent, haunted with memories of ghosts. The sound of a falling block to my left catches my attention, and Loki and I look around as one to seek the source. The silver stag I saw yesterday comes from behind a crumbling wall, and his ears cock forward when he spots us. His antlers look to be made of precious metal, glinting in the sun as they do, and his coat ripples like quicksilver, shining with faint colours under the north lights; it reminds me of an opal ring I once saw when I was very young. His nose twitches before he turns and leaves. I wonder if he is a part of a herd, and whether they too are in these ruined grounds.

“A moon deer,” Loki breathes. “I thought I’d never see one in the wilderness. They’ve been poached to near extinction for their pelts and antlers.”

“It’s not hard to see why,” I say. As soon as I saw the stag, I wanted it for my own.

“Come. If we make our way back to the main gate, then we’ll be able to find our way much easier. Let’s hope this has a similar layout to the castle.”

I follow close behind Loki as he makes his way to the left, back in the direction of the main doors. The flagstones are a little slippery under my feet, covered as they are with ice and snow. So even with the spiked treads of my boots helping me, I slide my feet along the ground. Loki pads forward like a hunting cat, steps silent and graceful.

A fallen wall lies in the courtyard, most probably belonging to the front of the castle — as there are several buildings in the areas whose walls have collapsed — and trees grow from between the stones. They are huge things, pine mostly, but some are things like winter spruce. But what catches my attention about the trees is the biggest one, a fir growing right in front of the great double doors leading into the castle, has a faerie nest in the trunk. The faerie flit around the stones, bright spots of blue and green light for the moon reflected from their wings. They are barely longer than my thumb, their skin a sickly grey, and they are as naked as babes. They pause as we come near, cocking their heads to the side before they raise their wings and hiss softly. Some of them fly towards us, and I huddle closer to Loki. They pick at the edges of my clothes, at the fur lining our cloaks, and the feathers in Loki’s hair. Loki snaps his teeth as one of them darts close to his chest, and she in turn bares her own, needle-sharp. Ice crackles over Loki’s skin, and the hoard of faerie retreat into the nest, sudden wary.

“Be careful of them,” Loki says. “Whilst they’re by far from bright, they have a soft spot of mischief.”

“So I’ve heard,” I say.

They chitter from within the nest as we draw nearer, but before they can do more than that, Loki touches the wood just above the opening. Ice gathers on the bark, freezing over the hole. I hear muffled screeches and the whirring of wings from within, and tiny fists beat against the ice.

“They’ll eventually eat their way out higher up the tree,” Loki says over his shoulder. “But it’ll take a few days.”

“But they won’t die, will they?”

“Some will. The greedier ones will turn on those weaker and eat them if they run out of insects. Faerie are gluttonous things.”

This again I have heard before. Some of our neighbours at the farm who are more superstitious still leave dishes of milk outside their doors come nightfall for things like faerie and goblins so they would not spoil their food. It had amused me in my younger years to sneak around after dark and drink the oftentimes fresh milk along with Lofn, particularly when food was running short. We’d never told anyone about it; it had been our little secret. Sometimes I’d felt guilty for it, but when my stomach was growling for food and milk was being left out for foul creatures that no longer inhabited our part of the world, the guilt had always lessened. I sniff at the thought, wiping my nose with the back of my hand. I miss my family more and more each day.

Loki heaves the door open, and the scent of rot and decay as well as a general mustiness fills my nose. Loki gags a little, holding his arm to his face and squinting against a stench I can’t smell. After a few deep breaths, Loki takes his arm away and holds his palm out flat. Two polished stones sit in it, carved with _Kenaz_ runes. Loki runs his other hand over them, and the runestones begin to glow bright green. The light reaches surprisingly far. Now that the darkness of the place has retreated, I can see a crumbling staircase leading to the first floor — a landing that splits into balconies that run back the length of the entrance hall. Unlike the castle, with its long, single flight of stairs leading up from the entrance hall to the top floor, there is no such thing here. We must venture further in to find access to the upper levels. But like the castle, to the right lies a great hall. Moth-eaten tapestries line the walls, and to the left is a flight of stairs leading downwards. The light just manages to reach the far-above ceiling.

“I like the other castle better,” I whisper into the silence.

Loki is still looking around the place, runestones held high in the air. “This is what the other must have looked like once,” he says. “These places were once identical. If you look at even the basic layout, they are the same — most probably down to the last centimetre.”

“But why build two identical castles so close together?”

“My new theory is that perhaps the original owner wanted to move.”

“That’s a lot of effort to move only five kilometres north.”

“People with enough time and gold on their hands do strange things in the pursuit of comfort. Some do it just because they can.”

Loki takes one of the stones and gives it to me. As soon as he tips it into my hand, the light changes colour to a soft, sky blue.

“What —? Why did it —?” I ask, staring.

“We all have some spark of magic deep within us,” Loki says, wholly unimpressed with the change. “Blue’s a good colour for you, Sigyn.”

The only thing I can say is, “Thank you.”

Loki points to the top of the stairs. “Up is the way to go, it seems.”

The stairs are, to my surprise, wooden, and mildew and rot has made them fragile. Loki and I stay to the sides where the wood is strongest, walking on our toes until we are safely on the landing.

“Will we be able to find our way back?” I ask.

“Here.” Loki crosses to the wall, palm glowing with green light, and he presses his hand to the stone. The green sinks in, leaving a handprint. “It’ll be a game of following the handprints to get back out,” Loki says. “I’ve also set a spell to keep track of the sun so we don’t get caught up in the dark. The direwolves roam these forests at dusk, and I’d rather not end up as wolf food. Which way now?”

“Right,” I say on a whim, marching off through another door to a narrow corridor. A cracked mirror covered in spiderwebs hangs on the wall to the left, and I swear I see something move and flee within it out of the corner of my eye.

“Faerie,” Loki says as I whip around trying to see what had caused it. “They live in here too, but in lesser numbers.”

“How do you know?”

“Like every other living creature, they leave their messes behind.”

“That was _far_ too much information.”

The next juncture has two choices: either to climb a spiralling staircase, or to turn to the left. The Incident has left me rather unforgiving of tight spaces, as they remind me of the walk to the belowground floor of the castle, and so I turn left. Loki follows without a word. There is another left turn a few metres down the next corridor that is hung with empty picture frames, and as I turn again and glance to my left, what I see takes my breath away.

“Oh Norns —”

The mosaic is huge, well over ten metres tall. The tiles it is made of are not square like those found to the south in hotter lands, but are of varying shapes and sizes that are masterfully put together like a jigsaw. There are many pictures making up this mosaic, possibly they are a narrative. But if they are, I recognise nothing of what is happening. There are Æsir, Vanir, jotnar, and every other kind of race in the mosaics. Loki comes up behind me, and I hear a low hum of appreciation in his throat. Norns if I understand his reaction — the piece is beautiful.

“What are these?” I ask in barely more than a whisper, brushing my fingers over the tiles. Dust has collected on the slight ledges made by the tiles, and it rains down when I disturb it.

“Stories,” Loki says. He steps next to me, tracing the outlines of the lowest figures with the tips of his claws. More dust falls as he moves to a barrier of fire. Once again, I cannot read his face to see what he is thinking. “Stories of the beginning — of the Ginnungagap and the creation of the realms. From there came the creation of the first being.” I know of the creation story the Æsir told before it was disproved thousands of years ago, but it entertained me nevertheless. Loki’s words rise and fall in pitch as he continues his tale. “The first of the giants that emerged from the Ginnungagap was given the name of Ymir, and it is from him all other jotnar are directly descended.”

“But …” I frown. This is different to the creation story I know. The one I know tells of three wanderers walking along a grey beach. They breathed life into two pieces of driftwood, and thereby created the first beings.

“These are jotun stories,” Loki says, waving his hand to indicate the mosaic, “and so of course they would be the central beings to their own creation.”

“Oh.” But of course they would be. It was stupid, and a little arrogant, of me to think otherwise. I hate feeling arrogant. “But then what is something like this doing in an Æsir-made castle?”

“Aesthetics, probably.” Loki points to the biggest figure on the mosaic — a resplendent man surrounded by aspects of sheer nature. Ice, lightning, fire, rock, wind, water, plant-life, and everything between crown his head and are held in the palms of his hands. “Ymir was the perfect jotun,” Loki says. “He had the attributes of all the species to exist, whether or not they still live today. He could command the storms, fell the greatest of mountains, and it is said he created the ice flows of the north. Everything he touched became a paradise for his children, each of whom had a single aspect of their father.” Around Ymir’s feet stand smaller figures. Each holds a single power around them, reflected in their visage sometimes. I see the frost giant of the lot at once — the only one of the jotnar to bear blue skin. A crown of ice sits on their head. “The realms were theirs, and so Ymir gave each of his children land to rule. For millennia the jotnar ruled the realms, but like all paradises, there was rot on the inside.” Loki’s voice quietens as he proceeds to the next part of the tale. “Ymir’s consort, Audumbla, had another child in secret. It is said he was a child of the salt for how destructive and unforgiving he was, and one full of rage. He was called Buri.”

“Buri?” I ask, astonished. “The first king of Asgard?”

“The same,” Loki says. He points to the corner of the mosaic, and I must squint to properly see what he is showing me. A single figure squats there — surely a caricature. The representation of Buri is an ugly, fanged thing — hunchbacked and grotesquely twisted like a monster. I realise with a shock that that was how I envisioned the jotnar once, before Loki came into my life.

“The story goes that he was jealous of the jotnar,” Loki says, “for although he was born of the consort of the first being, he possessed none of the gifts displayed by Ymir’s children. Jealousy drove him in his life, and he sought to destroy everything that the jotnar held precious. If his mission were not completed in his life, then it would be a quest every son of his line would undertake until his envy was satisfied, and all that was left of the jotnar was dust.

“So began the hatred between the Æsir and the jotnar, something they still hold towards each other today. Species were eradicated; burnt from existence. What had once been a race boasting hundreds of kinds, the jotnar were reduced in variety and number until their race were nothing but former shadows if themselves. Buri did not succeed in his quest, and so his son, Borr, took up the mantle, as did his son.”

“Odin,” I breathe. I try to find him on the mosaic, but it must precede the Allfather’s rule — there is nothing there of the story.

I think Loki looks troubled as he continues. “But unlike his predecessors …” He stumbles before he says, “Odin held far more ambition. In Jotunheim, he is called Furious One. He inspired to end the life of the source of it all, to chop of the head of the snake — he went after Ymir. With his spear in hand and no one but his brothers at his back, Odin sought out the first being. When they met in battle, it was a terrible thing that lasted many days and nights. But after the deaths of both of his brothers, Odin, severely weakened by many wounds, slew Ymir, aided by magic he stole from the Vanir. It is said Ymir bled so much that many of the survivors of the attacks led by Buri’s house over the millennia drowned in the blood of their forbearer. Those who did survive — the large majority of them being storm, fire, mountain, and frost giants — fled to the corners of the realms, staked out their land, and swore to defend it until the Æsir lay dead or the cosmos burned. The fire giants took the land of Muspelheim to the south, and the others came north to Jotunheim, claiming it for themselves. The frost giants control most of the land, whilst the storm and mountain giants reign further south amongst the rocks.”

“Do they inhabit the Troll Wall?” I ask.

“Some do,” Loki replies eventually. “But the storm and mountain giants themselves are a dying species. Few remain.” I think that he does not care either way about the survival or death of those jotnar; his tone tells me so. “Some roam around Midgard, driven south by desperation. They used to be more numerous in the old days when Odin held lesser power over that realm. But, as I said — few, if any, remain. They’ve been slaughtered over time, but all in the name of protecting the humans, of course.” There is a definite bitterness in his voice now.

I don’t know if I should say I feel sorry or not — for as the story goes, that would mean Loki shares blood with both storm, mountain, and all other giants — but he has turned away from the mosaic. I can only see his profile, but from what I see, his face is calm and remorseless.

“It’s quite a creation story that it has continued its history up to such a point in time as ours,” I say.

“I doubt it’s true — just like the story of how the Æsir came to be isn’t,” Loki says. “I believe it to have been modified for propaganda purposes during the Asgard-Jotunheim War. It’s the more likely reason why it is as it is.”

“Did you ever hate me?” I blurt. When Loki turns to face me, I continue, “I mean, you said the Æsir and the jotnar have hated each other for millennia. I hated you, once.” The confession makes me feel ashamed of myself. “It would make sense if you felt the same. Or even if you still feel the same.”

Loki swallows thickly. He looks as if he is making a huge decision, and he says, in nothing more than a whisper, “Of course I did.”

I cannot decide whether or not I believe him.

But the thought is driven away as a faerie bites me hard on the ear. I drop my runestone, and it clatters across the wooden floorboards as I shriek and slap the faerie away. The thing is sent whirling through the air, chittering angrily. Loki lets loose a guttural roar and swipes at it, leaping after it as it speeds away. Magic flies from his fingers, and it hits the faerie square in the back. It crashes into the wall with a squeal.

Loki stands on it, crushing it beneath his foot. “Vile things,” he spits. “Wastes of air.” He twists his heel a final time before he turns to look at me. His snarl melts away and he crosses to me, reaching out for my ear.

But as I move my foot, the wooden floorboards creak ominously before they crack right down their centres. I scream, “ _Loki!_ ” as I fall, and Loki grabs for my hand. He misses my reaching fingers by a hair’s breadth.

_Oh Norns oh Norns —_

My feet hit stone barely a heartbeat later. I tumble over, my legs crumpling beneath me. My hip hits the ground, jarring painfully, and I gasp in shock.

“Sigyn? _Sigyn?_ ”

“Loki!” My voice echoes loudly. I wince as I stretch, clutching at a fallen block of stone as I pull myself up onto wobbling legs.

“Sigyn? Are you hurt?”

“I’m alright. It’s not that far.” I only fell ten metres — fifteen at the absolute most — nothing to an asynja like myself. “I’m fine.” Even now, just standing up, my leg feels better. My ear is the hurt bothering me the most right now. It throbs unpleasantly, and I wonder if faerie bites are poisonous. I look up, and I can see Loki’s silhouette through the gap, red eyes shining in the dark like embers. I shift my weight, intending to ask about poison, but I nearly topple over again as something hard and round rolls beneath my foot. I clutch at the fallen stone. “Loki, light please?”

A few heartbeats later, my runestone is sent down to me. I catch it, the green light changing to blue at my touch, and I gasp at what I see. My hand flies to my mouth.

Skeletons. Æsir, Vanir, or elf skeletons — I am not sure what, exactly. There are dozens of them arranged in a circle of pitted bones with their heads put together, and their arms folded over their chests. The beautiful, once brightly coloured mosaic they lie on is cracked with age. I notice that not even the faerie have touched them.

Above me, I hear Loki’s intake of breath, and the wooden floor creaks as his grip on the broken planks tightens. But now that I am over the shock of seeing them, I crouch down to take a closer look. The bones are not pitted with age as I first though, but they are carved with runes — hundreds of thousands of them weaving a complex web of magic. I wonder if they are meant for the protection of the people, to help them into a further afterlife. It is strange, but fascinating at the same time. If they once wore clothes, they have rotted away.

“Don’t touch them,” Loki says sharply.

I don’t, but I cannot take my eyes off them. I count well over fifty, and one of them I guess to have belonged to a child — they are the smallest of the lot, barely taller than Brúðguminn. “What are they doing here?” I whisper. “Did you know they were here?”

“No,” Loki says. From what I can see, I would say that he is looking at them with curious detachment.

I turn my attention back to the bones. “Do you think they’ve made them happy?” I ask. “The runes carved into them?”

“What do you think they’re for?” Loki asks.

The question holds the odd reminiscence of a child’s game of pretend, but I hold none of that curiosity; I have reverence. “I think they are there to help them in what ever afterlife they believed in,” I say.

“Then I think the runes have made them happy,” Loki says. “Come, Sigyn. Leave them to their rest.”

I turn, looking up to him. Loki’s hands are pressed against the wall, and his face is twisted in effort as a staircase made of ice creeps towards me. As soon as it touches the ground near my feet, Loki grimaces and pulls his hands away from the wall, but there is a gap of a metre and a half between the top of the stairs and the corridor.

“I’ll pull you up the last bit,” Loki says, sitting back on his heels. His face looks a paler blue than usual.

I didn’t realise how difficult ice summoning could have been. What I saw in the courtyard with the faerie nest there, it had looked easy for him, as well as the ice he used when he came to the farm. It is then I wonder, for the first time, why Loki is so small for a frost giant. There must be a reason, and perhaps that reason is why this display of ice shaping was a bit of a struggle.

I climb up the stairs on my hands and feet, finally standing on what seems to be a treacherously balanced tower. But it is stable enough, I find. When I am fully upright, I grab Loki’s offered hand. He hauls me up through the gap with ease. If I had not seen it for myself, I would have been none-the-wiser to his before moment of weakness.

“Are you alright?” he asks yet again as soon as I’m on solid ground.

“I’m fine,” I say, scooting away from the gap and back onto stone. “My ear stings, but otherwise, I’m fine.”

“Here.” Loki brushes his fingers over my ear. A hot tingling sensation spreads through it, and I squirm, fighting to bat at it. When the feeling fades, my ear no longer throbs in pain.

“You …?” I am lost for words. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” Loki says. He is looking at me in the strangest way.

“I was going to ask if faerie are poisonous,” I say.

“They’re not,” Loki says. He turns his head suddenly, tilting it a little to the side. “We should go,” he says. “We’ll be able to make it back in time if we leave now.”

“Let’s, then. I don’t fancy being wolf food.”

Loki laughs at the echo of his words before, and, sticking to the edges of the floorboards, we follow his handprints back to the entrance.

Afterwards, there is something intensely satisfying about listening to the angry screeches of the faerie trapped in their nest as I eat honey-slathered bread and drink hot tea straight from the flask for a late lunch.

* * *

“We _have_ to go back tomorrow and get further inside,” I say over dinner that night. I am eating smoked salmon and diced vegetables that have been soaked in vinegar tonight. As usual, Loki eats nothing, but he does have a mug of cider in front of him from which he occasionally takes sips. “Please, Loki.”

“Maybe,” he says. “Sigyn, that places holds much more danger than I thought it would.”

“Oh where’s your sense of adventure?” I ask. “I’m fine — the fall didn’t break my ankle, and I’m not lying on the ground with my mouth frothing with poison either. What’s the problem?”

But Loki is only laughing, a thing from deep within his chest that has forced his head back. I am not amused, staring at him and silently demanding both for an explanation as to what he finds so funny about me, and to stop.

Eventually he does, and when he sees my thunderous expression, says, “You’ve changed since your first night here. You were so timid I thought that I went so far as to think the very sight of me would have you faint at any second from fright. You are bolder, now.”

“I am stronger than you paint me as,” I say, jabbing at a piece of fish. “I just became more confident.”

 _And more comfortable in your presence_ , I add silently.

“Besides, our adventure today has put me into a good mood. If you like me as I am right now so much, the way to keep me in such a mood is to promise we’ll go again tomorrow.”

Loki is grinning, scratching his eyebrow in an effort, I think, to hide his amusement. I bite the pad of my thumb, smiling around it as I look at him expectantly. “Perhaps if we find more mosaics, you can tell me more stories,” I say.

“Even if they are jotun ones?”

“The best kinds of stories are ones you haven’t heard before.” I am waiting for his answer, expectant of a positive outcome.

It comes:

“Tomorrow, then.”

I finish my fish and get to my feet, excitement burning hot in my chest. “Thank you,” I say. I round the table and hug him as he too stands. Loki only hesitates a second before he cautiously squeezes me back, and I can feel his smile in my hair.

My cheek is soon chilled pressed as it is against his chest, and I have to let go. “Cold,” I say in explanation. I stretch my mouth into a purposely awkward grin. “Sorry.”

Loki presses the back of his hand to my other cheek, and I gasp at the sudden cold, jumping back. “For earlier,” he says, an affectionate growl — if it could be described as such — colouring his voice.

I swat at his arm. “Arse.”

A purr sounds in his throat, but it is choked off almost immediately. Loki swallows and looks away, a muscle clenching in his jaw.

I put a hand high on his chest by his collarbone, and I whisper, “Loki, do it again.”

His eyes are dark, and I think for a few seconds he will not. But then he does, and the vibration travels along my arm, within the very bone. I lay my ear against his chest, listening to it and utterly silent. I only pull away when Loki cuts the purr off a half-minute later.

“Thank you, Loki,” I say again. He smells of winter mornings, of the faint touch magic leaves upon the air, and underlying it all is a deeply masculine scent that sets my nerves afire. My breath hitches at that and I pull as casually as I can away from him. The smell is still clouding my nose, and I try to wipe it away with the back of my hand. “I might go up now,” I say. “I’m tired.”

“Very well,” Loki says. Then softly, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” His fingertips linger on the back of my hand before I pull away.

A part of me deplores about getting in the bath that night. Ambátt has put a variety of well-complimenting scents into the water, and the steam that clogs my nose effectively erases Loki’s scent. I imagine that I can still smell it on my hands — left purposely dry — as I sit in the bath, and I hold them to my face, taking deep, long breaths as I attempt to imprint it into my memory. Again, I have lost track of the time, for Ambátt knocks upon the door and asks after me.

“I’m coming!” I call, raising myself from the tub and pulling the plug. I wrap a towel around myself and another around my hair.

I am very chatty this evening, and I talk to Ambátt about what Loki and I saw today. Every time I say his name, Ambátt’s smile only widens, and the brush strokes she pulls through my hair seem to be pressed deeper and are drawn slower. I tell her about the faerie, the mosaic, and the chamber I fell in to.

“You should have seen them, Ambátt,” I say, looking at her in the mirror. “There were so many of them. I wonder now if it were something macabre — something like a ritual sacrifice.” I shudder at the thought. Surely not. It could have just as easily been something like a strange, ancient catacomb, the skeletons placed there over years and years.

“How terrifying,” Ambátt says. Her voice is quiet, and I wonder if I should have mentioned the skeletons. Perhaps she finds such things distasteful.

I pull my brushed hair in front of my eyes and fiddle with the ends. “Thank you, Ambátt. This is perfect.”

“Would you like me to plait it?”

“Yes please. That would be wonderful.”

Ambátt works quickly and efficiently, and soon I am beneath the furs of the bed, and she is drawing the curtains across the window.

“Goodnight, my lady,” she says as she deposits the coals in the warming pan back into the fire. She closes to door carefully, leaving me with troubled thoughts. I am certain that I have upset her, and I am determined to apologise in the morning. I turn over onto my side, pulling the furs around me and glaring at the wall.

The tension in me uncoils when I hear the door open sometime later and my visitor pads over the flagstones. They climb onto my bed with a sigh and readjust themselves as they do every night. I bite my lip, listening to my heart beating against my ribs. It is utterly calm, very unlike how it hammered the first night this happened. It is a traitor to me, showing the world just how unafraid I am of this person who climbs onto my bed and has slept next to me every night for the past seven weeks.

But as the hand is once again placed on my hip, some part of me is disappointed that it isn’t icy cold. That it isn’t Loki. I swallow, scared about that flash of bitter disappointment. I know of the frost giants, have been told of the devastation of the war a millennium before, and I am suddenly so very angry with myself for hoping that this warm companion pressed against my back is one of them. It is probably one of the servants, someone like Þræll. I wish for my traitor heart to pound like a hunted rabbit’s. Tears prick my eyes, and I am careful to wipe them away so not to disturb my visitor. I don’t want their hand to leave my hip, for them to stand up and leave and take their comforting weight off my mattress with them, perhaps forever. I am afraid that my movement will spoil this moment.

But they are still at my back when I fall asleep.

My flower come morning is a petunia.

* * *

I am bouncing on my toes as I wait for Ambátt to finish doing my dress up at the back. It is a sunshine yellow thing, made of a blend of cotton and silk. The result is a fabric that feels like the wind kissing my skin.

“My lady is eager for breakfast this morning,” Ambátt notes.

“The sooner breakfast is over with, the sooner Loki and I can go again,” I say.

“Perhaps that would be true if the sun came to these lands earlier.”

“It’s starting to,” I say. “Winter is almost over.”

“Perhaps that is true for the more southern regions,” Ambátt says, “but it will be a little while yet before the snow begins to melt here.”

I nod. Despite how taken I was with the scenery when I first got here, the snow is starting to become a nuisance. I still think it utterly beautiful, but it is a chore to go outside, and many of the areas around the castle windows are freezing, despite the heating system.

Ambátt finishes with the dress and steps back. “There, my lady. All ready.”

I twirl around on the spot, watching the hem flare. “Tell Saumakona that her work has once again astonished me,” I say.

“I shall, my lady. Your shoes.”

I slip into them before I exit my rooms and hurry down the stairs, jumping them two at a time. I fly into the dining hall just as Loki sits in his seat. He looks surprised at how quickly I have come. “Sigyn. I wasn’t expecting you for —”

“As I said before, adventuring in the ruins will put me into a good mood,” I say, sitting at my chair and reaching for slices of toast cooked in butter. Loki had called it _French toast_ , something he had come across on his travels to Midgard. I gesture to the table with this thought. “Please, Loki, eat something.”

“No, Sigyn,” Loki says with a sigh. He drums his fingers on the table and smiles at me. “If the architecture of that castle was indeed the same to this one, then the underground chambers will be just as extensive. We looked above ground yesterday, and from the lack of a spire, I’d say we would have soon run into a dead end. Let’s go the other way today.”

“Done,” I say, finishing the last bite. Kokkurinn appears at my elbow then, a teapot in hand. He sets down a glass teacup and a matching saucer and what he pours into it is a golden-brown liquid. I look at it, curious. It smells wonderful.

“It’s a tea,” Loki says, “made of saffron and cinnamon and … Damn, I can never remember the last ingredient.” Loki looks to Kokkurinn for an answer, but the man merely grins.

“You’ll need to guess that one,” he says, dropping a spoonful of sugar into my cup and stirring it in. He gives me a wink.

Loki growls low in his throat, evidently frustrated. Kokkurinn walks back into the kitchen with a good-hearted laugh.

I pick the teacup up and blow the steam away from the surface.

“Regardless of what’s in it,” Loki says, “it helps warm from the inside; keeps you awake as well. It tastes wonderful.”

“Will you not have a cup?” I ask as I take a sip. It is very sweet, and Norns, it’s the best tea I’ve ever tasted. I have to fight not to slurp the entire thing down in one. I can taste the cinnamon, something I recognise from my hot chocolate, but this is the first time I have tasted saffron. As such, I have no chance in guessing what the last ingredient is.

I eat more toast and some chicken sausages flavoured with herbs, making small talk with Loki. Eventually, the last morsel is cleared away, and my stomach feels pleasantly full.

“I’ll be back soon,” I say, rising from my seat.

Loki nods, and I give him a quick dip of a curtsy before I leave. I climb the stairs, eager, and am near the second floor when I hear the low murmur of voices deeper within the castle. I pause when I hear my name.

“… feel it, can’t you? Sigyn is making her nervous.”

“Of course she is.”

I sneak through the corridors, and I almost stumble on Ambátt and Þræll tucked away in a corner. I feel bad for eavesdropping — again — but what has caught my attention is the anonymous _her_ they have spoken of. I am not who they were referring to.

“You wouldn’t think, would you?” Ambátt says a moment later, laughing under her breath. “Loki the Liar has a heart after all. Have you not seen it? He is falling for her.”

I don’t hear the last part. My mind is fixated on the epithet: Loki the Liar. The name angers me. The anger comes from nowhere, and I’m shocked at it. But it _feels_ familiar, but I couldn’t for the life of me tell why it did. It was like a half remembered recollection of something from when one was a child: fuzzy and distant, but rooted in reality. The moment, however, passes. I must have shifted my foot or made a noise of some kind to alert the two of my presence, for Ambátt is suddenly at my elbow.

“My lady Sigyn, is there anything I can do for you?”

“I —” I fumble for something to say. “I was lost. I saw you, and I was just going to ask if you could show me back to my chambers.”

“Of course, my lady.” Ambátt takes the lie as it is. She curtsies and beckons me to follow her.

I am in a daze, and am only brought out of it when Ambátt stops outside my rooms. “My lady, Kokkurinn has prepared —”

“Ambátt,” I say quietly. A fog has spread over my mind. “Please tell Loki I will not be joining him today. I have changed my mind. Tell him I am sorry for the inconvenience, and that I wish not to be disturbed for the rest of the day.” It is my first order of her that has not had a single hint of hesitance in it. It is entirely unlike me, but at that moment, I simply cannot bring myself to care about the coldness of it.

I think Ambátt’s smile falters a fraction, but she only gives me a deep curtsy and says, “Yes, my lady.”

I nod and retreat inside my rooms, sliding the key into the lock. I hear the mechanism click into place, shutting me away from the world.

* * *

The conversation between Ambátt and Þræll has stirred the insecurities within me again. Liar. Loki the Liar. It is all I can think about for the next few days. I am so upset the first night after I heard them that when my visitor came to my bed and placed their hand on my side, I jerked away from them. I regretted it almost at once, for they did not put their hand on my side again. I found myself missing it immensely. When the morning came, I woke to see a purple hyacinth.

This newfound behaviour of mine begins to affect me physically, too. Dark, bruise-like shadows are a permanent fixture beneath my eyes, and I am beginning to lose weight. It is like a stone rolling down a hill — hard to stop. My newly gained soft curves start to vanish, my hip bones protruding more and more every day, but despite it and Ambátt’s fretting and worry, I do not feel hungry. I constantly feel exhausted and lethargic, and some days it is an absolute chore to get up and go to breakfast. Part of me wonders if I am depressed, and deep down, some part of me knows that the answer is yes.

And always, always, I think of my family, my mind lingering on them for hours upon hours.

I think of Gefjun, and wonder if she has thought of the possibility of marriage now that she will have a sufficient dowry.

 _If Loki kept his promise_ , a voice whispers deep in my mind.

I wonder if Lofn, the artist of the family and who dreams to be educated enough to go to university one day and eventually teach art herself, has hired herself a tutor to help bring her dream to life.

_But of course, it all depends on if Loki has kept his promise._

I think of foul-tempered Vár, of radiant Syn, of quirky Sjöfn, and of sweet little Hnoss, clothed in silks and satins and their stomachs full of the same rich, creamy food I have been treated to.

I think of Mother and Father, wondering and hoping that they have found everything they needed, be it funds or shelter or food, to not only see my sisters through the winter, but to help to start rebuilding their lives.

_Yes, but only if Loki_ _’s promise is kept._

Again and again the thought comes up, and eventually the only one choice I have to make sure if Loki has indeed kept to his sworn oath is to see it with my own eyes.

I must go home, if only for a visit. I have to; otherwise, I fear that I will never make it out of this rut, or that I will never find peace of mind again. I have to ask him.

But I wait. I wait until a day comes that it feels right that I can ask this big, almost scandalous, thing of him — it could endanger the struck bargain. I make my best effort to launch myself back into things, to smile and find again the Sigyn I was after I returned from the ruins with Loki almost three weeks ago, but it is so difficult.

But I am a terrible actress, for Loki notices something is wrong. He acts on the day that I decide to.

It is a day on which I finally feel safe to ask Loki my heart’s greatest desire, and I rise before Ambátt comes to greet me. I cross the atrium to my rooms to my dressing suite, opening the wardrobe and scanning my eyes across the dresses within. Several of them do not fit me as snuggly as they once did for my rapid loss of weight, and so I select the dress that I wore to my first breakfast here — my star dress. Ambátt finds me some time later struggling with the ridiculously complicated lacings on the back, and I am almost sobbing with frustration at my inability to do them up myself. She says nothing as she comes to help me.

I stand with my hands pressed flat against the wardrobe so to steady myself when my bodice is pulled tight. “Thank you,” I say softly when she is finished.

“Of course, my lady,” Ambátt says. She gets my shoes just as silently as she had been when tightening the laces.

I am quiet as I go down to the main hall, even making an effort so my shoes do not click on the stone. My eyes are fixed on the floor. When the doors to the hall open, I flick my gaze up to see Loki in his seat, but my eyes fall away again just as quickly. I am the same little bird who ate here on my first night when I perch on the edge of my seat, smoothing the imaginary wrinkles from my lap.

“Good morning,” I say in barely more than a whisper.

“Good morning.” Loki’s voice is like a shout compared to mine. I reach for a bread roll, nibbling on it for a few moments.

“Sigyn.” I look up at Loki, and I am almost startled to see how concerned he is. He rises from his seat and comes to stand next to me at a respectable distance. I can hardly remember the night after we had explored the ruins, the one where we had laughed and laid our hands over each other, and my ear against his chest.

Loki passes me a rolled up piece of parchment, held together with a rawhide cord. It is very thick and heavy in my fingers, somewhere halfway between paper and cloth. “Open it,” he says.

I pull the bow undone and unroll the scroll. Drawn upon the parchment is a straight line. One end has been crooked to the left, and at the other is a hollow circle. Three short strokes intersect the line.

“What is it?” I ask, turning the parchment over in my fingers.

“A _svefnthorn_ — a sleep thorn. It’ll help you sleep better if you put it beneath your pillow.”

“Thank you,” I say. A part of me is flattered that Loki has not only noticed my sleeplessness, but had sought to help me, even after I have been so very rude to him over the past weeks. I wonder bitterly if the _svefnthorn_ will help me forget my homesickness. The thought sparks my mind into action. This is the perfect opportunity to ask him, and so I ride the wave.

“I haven’t been sleeping well for a while,” I say, fiddling with the _svefnthorn_. “I … Loki. This castle it’s … it’s beyond anything that I thought it could be. When you came that night, I thought you were going to take me to Jotunheim to have your way with me as you wished, and maybe even kill me. But even with everything that you’ve done for me … I … I miss my family. I want to go home.”

A long silence falls.

“Only for a little,” I press on, trying to make amends. “I promise I’ll come back.”

Loki is frozen where he kneels. He is still for a few more heartbeats, but then his face twists and he rises fluidly.

“Loki!”

I half-rise from my seat, reaching for him, but he is gone with a whirl of wolf fur.


	5. The Advice

_The delicate hope that had begun to grow within me was crushed when Sigyn said that she wished for nothing more than to go home. The ropes tighten their hold once again, and the murmur of pleasure from the Queen nearly makes my knees buckle. The knife edge that my mind is so precariously balanced on threatens to tip, and I wish desperately for something to destroy. My restored chambers are again a tempting target, but sheer destruction cannot avert my hurt — only something equal could ever do that — for I know that it is I who is the root problem. I’ve given her everything I can, and yet she, so sweet and beautiful, asks from me the one thing I can’t bear to give. And after a while, hurting myself to alleviate my self-hatred begins to lose its effectiveness — the pain doesn’t feel sufficient enough to deliver proper punishment. So I turn my attention outwards._

_I don’t think I have killed and gorged myself on so many deer and rabbit the nights following Sigyn’s request as I have before, and I feel sick for it. But it feels fitting — it’s satisfying to fulfil the role of the monster so perfectly, to submit to my base nature and eat the raw, still warm flesh of my prey. The scent of their blood, even hours later, clings to my skin, no matter how hard I try to wash it away. It occurs to me that perhaps the smell is a product of my mind, but the thought makes it worse — it’s the damning moment for me, for I realise, deep within my bones, the truth: no matter how hard I may try, no matter how much I lie to myself, I can’t escape the truth of what I am. Monstrous._

_It’s this realisation that sways my mind — I can’t damn Sigyn to my self-destruction, or my selfishness._

A week _, the Queen whispers in my ear._ One week. Let’s watch you dance.

* * *

The day we are to leave, the flower on my bed is a jonquil blossom. I am hesitant in a way to pick it up, as if I crave to savour the moment for a second longer — I am not so foolish enough to even think my companion will follow me back home. This will be my last flower for a week, and perhaps forever if my companion decides to never again visit me after my return. For I will return. I have sworn it, and the Æsir are known as a people to not swear to things lightly.

My bag is already packed — a thing made of waterproofed deer hide on a wooden frame — and it sits waiting at the foot of my bed. I crawl from beneath the furs and haul it up onto my lap, flipping open the top to check everything inside. I have not only packed clothes for the trip, but several other items. My star dress is in there, along with the book I so adore, the  _Kenaz_  runestone, and some of the finer pieces of jewellery I am desperate to show my sisters. A shiver runs down my spine at the thought; I am going home.

Ambátt knocks on the door then, and I jump a little at the sudden noise. “Come in!”

Ambátt is subdued this morning, and I swallow and straighten my posture. “Good morning, my lady.”

“Good morning.”

Ambátt opens the curtains, but I do not have the heart to look out the window. I put everything back in the pack before Ambátt turns around again. “Your absence will be felt,” she says. “Many of the staff have grown fond of you.”

I think it an odd thing to say, seeing as the only staff I interact with on a regular basis are Ambátt, Saumakona, Kokkurinn, Þræll — of whom I have seen more and more lately — and Brúðguminn. So all that I can feel I can do is nod and smile a little. “Tell them that means a great deal to me,” I say. “Thank you.”

“Your things have been laid out. I have prepared your warm things, as it is my understanding you are to leave straight are you have finished eating.”

“Yes,” I say. “Thank you.”

I pull my pack up onto my back, despite how Ambátt insists on carrying it for me, and lay it against the wall in the atrium. Then I make my way to the dressing room, and my heavy clothes and cloak have been hung ready for me on the door of the wardrobe. It is these things that really make me realise that I am going home, that make me feel the gravity of it in my bones. I have no pretty dress to wear today, just the most practical pieces of clothing that I own. But what it hung next to them are the clothes I wore upon my arrival to the castle. The threadbare dress, thin cardigans and scarves, and the worn shoes no longer feel entirely mine. They are only one piece of my wardrobe now instead of the majority of it, and the poorest. I run my fingers down the fabric, slightly surprised at how rough it feels; I had forgotten that, so used am I to the softer cloth of my new clothes.

“You kept them,” I whisper. I am incredibly touched by this piece of sentiment, and I wipe my nose on the back of my hand and turn to Ambátt who stands silently at the door.

“We would never throw any of your things out,” she says. She comes to stand next to me and takes my dress from the hanger, turning it around to show me the back. At first I don’t know what she’s showing me, but then, after a little more searching, I see the tear on the skirt has been carefully sewn up. I had completely forgotten about that.

“Thank you,” I breathe, taking the dress from her and merely looking at the stitch work; it is so subtle it is almost invisible. It seems that thank you is all I can say today, and it feels like it has become inadequate.

“I must not delay you any longer,” Ambátt says.

She helps me into my clothes, and we make ample chat about meaningless things: the weather, what I hope to have for breakfast, am I excited for going home. I feel as if the conversation is awkward and forced, for it doesn’t flow between us as it usually does. I feel terrible and out of place for it, like a nail sticking out of a once smooth floor. I do not feel terrible for wanting to go home — it would be unnatural for someone like myself who comes from a loving and adoring family not to miss them — but for the fact that the atmosphere makes me feel guilty. Ambátt especially makes me feel this, for I sometimes think that what must be going through her mind was that she didn’t try hard enough, that her efforts to make me feel comfortable and at home weren’t meet with the reception that she had hoped.

But honestly, I look forward to my departure if all I will receive this morning is this melancholy mood. I think it entirely unfair that she and the other staff through her are making me feel like this, whether they are aware of it or not. Some part of me is grateful, but my survival instinct has come back stronger than ever at this realisation. I have to get away, if only to clear my mind of fog.

The last tie of my shirt is done up, and Ambátt steps away with her head bent as I look at myself one final time in the mirror. Ambátt has my wolf fur cloak over her arm, and she invites me to exit the room first with the gesture of a hand. I go to my pack, picking it up and hoisting it over my shoulders before I go to the door of my rooms. I take the key from its little table, and after Ambátt exits, I give it to her. “Keep it safe for me,” I say. “Please, Ambátt.”

“I would be a poor handmaiden if I did not do so,” she says with a hint more of the woman I know her to be. She holds the iron key tight in her hand as she leads me to the stairs. I dive for this piece of her old self like a starving man for a crust of bread.

“You’re wonderful; I couldn’t wish for anything more,” I say, deliberately keeping to the present tense.  _It’s not forever_ , I want to snap at her.  _It’s for one week, so stop acting like it isn’t._

“I’m glad you are so satisfied with my services,” Ambátt says.

I cock my head to the side. “Why wouldn’t I be?” I ask. “Give me one reason why I wouldn’t be. You’ve helped me with everything — getting ready, pressing the flowers, telling me the best combinations for scents for the bath. Ambátt, you’re a dream. I … I thought, when I first agreed to come with Loki, I thought he was going to take me to a  _cave_. I was still thinking that when I first stepped foot here that, even if this place were an elaborate cave, it’d still be one. You’ve helped me through this, been my best friend. Ambátt, if not for you, I doubt I would have found any kind of happiness here.”

“You are very kind to say so, my lady,” Ambátt says with her head bowed.

“I have one more order for you,” I say. “Well, two actually: chin up, and smile. Please.”

Ambátt does so, straightening her back and laughing. It’s a true laugh, not one performed for my satisfaction. I laugh in turn as we come to the dinning hall. The scents of smoked meats and fresh bread baked through with herbs reach our noses, and I pulled Ambátt into a tight hug before I pass my pack to her when she gestures for it.

“Thank you,” she says, “and enjoy your breakfast.”

I turn to the doors, wringing my hands a couples of times before I push them open firmly.

The breakfast is no less extravagant than the others I have attended, and, if I can even believe it, it may even surpass them. Norns, the staff are treating this departure as if I will never be back. I am past the flattery I have treated myself to this morning: now I’m just over it. I look forward to my departure if just to get away from the misery that hangs over everyone like a cloud. I have thought that many times this morning, I realise.

If I had hoped Loki would have been better than the others, I am mistaken. Vastly. He is moping the most. I am greeted with the top of his head when I see him sitting at the head of the table, gouging something into the wooden tabletop with his claws. I clear my throat, folding my hands in front of me. “Good morning.”

Loki only raises his eyes. “Good morning.”

“Why is everyone acting like this?” I blurt out. “It’s one week. I’m not going away forever.”

“There are some who believe you are.”

“But you know I’m not, and you’re acting no better than them. My lord.”

“I have my own reasons, namely that I will miss your company.”

“Thank you,” I say, “but … it’s not for long. It’s nothing. One week away out of how many thousands of weeks we will live, it’s the blink of an eye.” I pause and then ask, “Is there some deeper reason why my leaving would be a bad thing?”

“No,” Loki says, finally lifting his head and straightening his back. His movements are entirely too casual for my liking. I am sniffing something more that he isn’t telling me.

I don’t push it. “Have you eaten?”

“I’m fine.”

“Loki, you have to eat something.” I sit and gesture to the food. “Please, just eat something. From what I’ve seen, you’re living on drink for I know.”

“I’m quite full,” Loki says. “I had something already.”

I’m not sure what I expected. Everyone’s tense and short-tempered this morning, including me. I just want to leave, and so I sit and start shovelling sausages and toast into my mouth. Loki gestures for Kokkurinn to come and pour him something, and, from the corner of my eye, I watch as the cook fills Loki’s mug with some dark liquid that steams with heat. I wonder what it is. He gulps it down in a few mouthfuls, before he stands and says, “I’ll head down; make sure everything is ready to go.”

I swallow my mouthful rather painfully, as I hadn’t yet finished chewing, and say hastily, “I’m almost done. Can’t you wait?”

“I don’t want to keep you waiting to leave,” Loki says. It’s a poor excuse, but he’s gone before I can protest further. So I do what I can and finish my food as fast as possible. I’m still chewing it when I put my cutlery down and hurry after Loki, saying a goodbye to Kokkurinn over my shoulder and thanking him from the meal.

“I’ll have a grand feast for you upon your return,” he calls after me.

I turn to him when I get to the door and smile wide. “I am looking forward to it,” I say, giving a tiny wave before I leave.

I hurry through the main entrance and down to the cavern, taking the stairs two at a time as I swallow the food in my mouth. Loki stands in the middle of the cavern, head tilted to the side and arms crossed with my pack sitting behind his feet and my cloak in his arms. I arrive just in time to see Brúðguminn disappear around the corner to, I presume, fetch Blíðýr.

“You were quick,” Loki says, and I imagine there is a tight clipped quality to his voice.

“I told you I was almost done,” I say. “Why didn’t you wai—?”

Blíðýr rushes out of the stable-cavern, and I stumble over my pack. I must not have closed it correctly this morning, for the ties come undone, and several of my belongings spill out of it. I feel hot with embarrassment as they slide across the ice. My book thumps into Loki’s leg, and he looks down at it in surprise, before he stoops and picks it up, weighing it in his hand.

“I’m sorry,” I say, holding my hands out for it.

“ _The Language of Flowers_ ,” Loki reads. He opens the book, and I have to fight a blush when one of the pressed flowers inside falls out. Loki stoops to pick it up, and he twirls it in his fingers. I had placed some of those that finished pressing into the pages yesterday. “Where did you get this?”

“I … err … it was a gift,” I say.

“But these aren’t in season,” Loki says. What he has is lavender heather, and they are spring flowers.

“Aren’t they?” I ask innocently. “Well, that is a mystery, for it was quite fresh when it was given to me.”

Loki eyes me, but he says nothing more as he flicks to the pages he found the flower in and puts it back. “This book once belonged to someone who was very close to me, close enough that I considered her family once. She still is in many ways, but … disagreements sprung up between us. We haven’t spoken in a long time.” He hands the book back to me, and I almost snatch it from him.

“Oh, my lady, let me get that for you,” Brúðguminn says, holding his arms out for the pack.

I put the book back in hastily before I give it to him. Brúðguminn turns and grabs Blíðýr’s reins, pulling on them to calm him down.

Loki only chuckles, shaking his head. “Damn thing,” he says.

“He’s like a puppy,” I say.

“He is a pup,” Loki says, passing me my cloak as well. “He’s only a couple of decades old.  _Ísverur_  — ice beasts — take a near century to grow to adulthood.”

“Why have a pup, then?” I ask as I fasten it around my shoulders.

Loki sighs heavily. “I’d rather not mount something that requires a ladder,” he says. He looks to his hand briefly before he starts to Blíðýr, reaching up and pulling on one of his tusks. Blíðýr whines loudly, but then settles down. Loki gestures to me to come forward, and he helps me up into the saddle. I am once again perching awkwardly on Blíðýr’s back, and it is a relief when Loki clambers up behind me, movements liquid and graceful, and he leans over me again. He take the reins in hand and makes that clucking noise again. Blíðýr surges to his feet, shakes his head, and then bounds forward in a sudden burst of speed. I would have fallen off if not for Loki, who has dug his heels deep into the stirrups. The portcullis is open, and the landscape beyond is dark with the pre-dawn; only the lights from the castle reflecting off the snow give any sort of indication as to what is beyond.

Blíðýr bursts into the open with a grunt of delight, and the rush of cold air to my face shocks me awake. I pull the edges of my cloak further around my face to shield myself from the chill. My breakfast churns in my stomach, and I concentrate on fighting to keep it down — I wish Blíðýr would slow just so I can get a firm grip on my food. Loki’s arm snakes around me again,and I inhale sharply at the touch, but I do not pull away; if anything, I sink deeper into it, trying to make myself as small as possible. But the tight grip means I cannot see the castle shrink behind me. Soon, the light fades, and I am blind. I wonder if Loki and Blíðýr can see where they’re going, for they are creatures of the northern lands and must be used to darkness like this. It seems they must, for Loki pulls on the reins to direct Blíðýr towards the southern road, and the beast compiles without complaint.

As we travel down the road, I feel my eyes grow heavy. Loki’s firm weight on my back is a lulling comfort, and my eyes slip closed before I can rationalise how early it is in the day.

* * *

My back is protesting when I stir later. I groan as I shift my weight, blinking sleepily. The world is grey and green, and sunlight warms my arms for the first time in weeks.

“Where are we?” I mutter.

“About fives miles from your home,” Loki says.

I sit up at once, throwing him from my back. I recognise where we are once I have oriented myself — a field belonging to one of the farms neighbouring ours. It seemed to us — that being my sisters and I — that the field was never in use.

“When did we get here? What time is it?” From looking around, I think it to be in the wee hours of the morning. Oh Norns, I had slept the entire ride again. Now that it has happened twice, I figure that it must be for the influence of some kind of enchantment. I am sick of being caught up in enchantments.

“Dawn split the horizon about twenty minutes ago,” Loki says.

I nod just as my stomach growls for food. Loki cocks an eyebrow in amusement, and I grumble, “Shut up,” in response.

“Let’s shut your stomach up, then,” Loki says. “You should eat first.” Then, he slides down Blíðýr’s side and holds his hand out for me to take. I do so, careful this time not to let any of my clothes snag. I make it down with my clothes intact this time, and I rearrange my dress.

There is cold ham packed into Loki’s small bag, and I eat strips of it in silence as Loki leans back on his hands, looking at the lightening sky. Dew clings to the mail on his thighs, glistening in the rising sun. When I look up at him for a second, a part of me is struck how, if he were Æsir, I could have considered him to be handsome in an effeminate way, and I even go so far as to think he might have been beautiful. The light has caught him just right, illuminating his long lashes and outlining his straight nose and strong jawline. The contrasting light helps define the muscles in his arms and chest, and I have to admit to myself that he does have an excellent physique. For a frost giant. But then he moves, ending the spell. I quickly lower my eyes, popping the last bits of ham into my mouth. I swear I see a smile twisting his lips before he stands and holds out a hand to help me to my feet.

“Thank you,” I say, taking it before he pulls me up.

We stand in silence for a second, and then Loki does something that surprises me. He unties the feathers from his hair and takes some strands of my own. As he twists them in, he says, “Return these to me. They belonged to a queen once. They’re very precious.”

“Is this insurance?” I ask.

“No. This is trust.”

Some part of me sees this is a claiming of some sort.

“I’ll trust you’ll come back,” he says. He is quiet, playing with my hair. Brooding.

I put my hands over his and turn to face him. “I promised, didn’t I?” I say. “I will come back.”

He nods, only once, before he unties my pack from Blíðýr’s saddle. When he gives it to me, he says, “I’ll be waiting here at sundown in a week. I won’t go with you; I doubt your family would take kindly to seeing me again.”

“You expect me to just show up out of the blue?” I ask, disgruntled.

“For both of our sakes,” Loki argues. “Your family may accept you living with a frost giant, but, Hel, being friends with one?” He shakes his head, slipping his thumbs into the belt loops on his trousers. “I’ve seen people banished from their homes for behaviour like that.”

“For being friends with one who considers himself monstrous?”

“Him and society.”

“You’re not monstrous, Loki. That I can promise you.”

“Then you’re naïve.”

I am angry at his blunt answer, for I am not naïve, and I know him, I know that he is not a monster. And then I think of how I thought him handsome, and I take it back. Sometimes, his personality and manner of speaking is anything but handsome.

“We need this break from each other,” I say quietly. “I will return in a week. Goodbye, Loki. I will see you soon.” I take up my pack and, casting one more long glance over my shoulder, trudge to the style straddling the corner of the fence and the path beyond that that leads to the main road.

“Sigyn!”

I stop at Loki’s shout, and I turn.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

My expression softens, but I won’t go back to him; I have made my stance. “You shouldn’t have, but I appreciate the apology,” I say, remembering his words from the day we explored the ruins. “Thank you.”

He gives a curt nod in return before he turns back to Blíðýr and checks the saddle straps. It is the cue for me to leave, and I take it. I am careful as I climb over the creaking, dew-damp style — as my pack is somewhat awkward to balance on my back as it curves — and start down the road. I have the nagging sense of leaving something behind, like when going away from home and being convinced something vital has been left lying forgotten, but I shake myself.

_I am home._

The track slopes gently downwards to the main road and consequently to my family’s farm. The world is stirring around me; I hear a dog barking in the distance, and the braying of a donkey or mule. I speed up as I walk further along the road, and when I am a mile from home, I am running. My lungs burn for breath, and my legs are in a similar state, but I cannot bring myself to care. Emotions are pouring forth. Tears sting my eyes, and I gasp for breath, my bones jerking as my strides become messy. My pack bounces against my back, and I am sweating profusely into my jacket. But my thoughts are all on the thin trail of smoke I see from behind the treeline separating the farm from the main road, the one that curves along our furtherest field.

There has never been a gate or any kind of fence ruling our property off, and I barely notice the foundations for one dug into the ground, for my eyes have snapped to the house. It looks much the same as it always has, and a small part of me is surprised at the humbleness of the picture. But that smoke, and the stack of fresh firewood piled just outside the door, speaks much to me of how much everything has changed.

I cannot help myself. “Mother!” I scream. “Father!”

There is a clatter from inside, and the door bursts open. My mother screams in turn as she sees me, and she runs up the track, arms thrown wide.

“Sigyn! It’s Sigyn!”

Hnoss darts from the house, and she streaks past my mother like a greyhound. We collide in the middle of the path, and she knocks me back, throwing her arms around me. “Sigyn!”

I have not cried since my first day at the castle, and it is now that my tears finally fall as Hnoss hugs me so tightly I cannot breathe. And then my mother’s arms are around me, pulling me close. And then Sjöfn is there, and Gefjun, and my other sisters and my father. We collapse in the middle of the ground, hugging each other tightly and an utter mess of tears and shaky breaths. Mother is kissing my hair repeatedly, and Father encircles us all in his arms. I am cocooned in the middle, limp and unwilling to get up. I squeeze my eyes shut, concentrating on stilling the shakes in my shoulders.

“Sigyn, you’re back!”

“Did you escape?”

“Your clothes are  _really_ nice.”

“What’s in your pack?”

“You smell gross.”

The insistent babble of my sisters around me only brings a smile to my face, and I sniff loudly, my heart bursting with happiness. My sniff seems to have been some unspoken cue, for everyone starts untangling themselves from the pile until Mother is in the only one left holding me.

“I just want a minute,” she says to me.

Vár rolls her eyes and tugs on Lofn’s sleeve to encourage her to come away. The others follow, and soon it is only Mother and me left. We stand up, and she looks me deep in the eye, cupping my face gently.

“Oh, Sigyn,” she whispers. “My baby girl. I’m so happy the frost giant’s let you leave. Or  _did_  you escape? How did you fare with it?”

“I am unharmed, Mother,” I say quietly. “Loki has been good to me.”

“‘Loki’?” she asks. Her mood changes from happiness to abrupt worry in the blink of an eye. Quiet anger lines her. “The thing has a name?”

I am irked by her address; Loki is not a  _thing_. My lips thin as I press them together.

“You look ill, my love,” she says, running her thumb down my cheek. “Have you been getting enough food? Enough sleep? Has it touched you?”

“Mother!” I hiss. I am mortified, and my cheeks suddenly flood with colour. “ _He_ has not approached me in that way. If that is what you are so concerned about, then know I am still a maiden. He has been good to me, as he has been good to us all.” I glance pointedly to the house.

“Are you sure? You look half starved.”

“Not for lack of food,” I say. “I was … I was homesick, Mother.” I hug her, burying my face into her shoulder. She wraps her arms around me, merely holding me as I fight to keep from breaking down again. It’s nice just to be held.

“What are these?” Mother has found the falcon feathers, and she twists them in her fingers. “Are these  _its_?” She spits of Loki as if he is a dog infested with disease.

“They are,” I say quietly. “Loki has entrusted them to me.”

Mother pulls them from my hair and throws them on the ground. “Forget that creature, Sigyn,” she says sternly, almost snarling. “You’re safe and you’re home. You do not owe it anything.”

I am on the verge of telling her that I must go back in a week, but I think it wise to hold my tongue; my mother is impossible to reason with when she is angry. I’m glad I don’t follow her in that; I am more like my father — forgiving, patient, and with an easy-going nature. My mother becomes sharp and bitter lines when her anger is aroused. I shall break the news later when she has calmed down.

“Come inside,” she says. “I’ll put the kettle on. We bought some of that herbal tea. Was it the peppermint one you liked so much last time? I’m sure we have that.”

“I just … I want a minute,” I say, gesturing vaguely around the farm. “I’ve missed it.”

My mother gives me an understanding look, and then a smile, before she heads back to the house. When she is gone, I duck down quickly and pick the feathers up, tucking them safely in my pocket. I think I see movement from the treeline, and I snap my head around, but the trees are still and silent. It was probably a bird; the place is infested with them. But my thoughts stray to Loki as I hurry inside.

The house is blazing with heat. I sigh with relief when I cross the threshold, stripping my cloak and jacket and hanging them on the pegs to the right of the door before kicking my boots off.

“Wow, Sigyn. Are those pants? And they uncomfortable?” Syn asks, perched on the edge of the firepit.

I look to my legs. “They’re really comfortable,” I say. “I think they’re made out of reindeer hide.”

“Ooh! Reindeer! Are there reindeer in Jotunheim?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Syn flatters. “You … you didn’t go to Jotunheim? Then where did you go? You went north; I saw you leave.”

Just as I’m about to open my mouth to tell her, Hnoss jumps in front of me. “Sigyn look. We got a cat!” She holds up for my inspection a sooty kitten. It is barely old enough to leave its mother, and it yawns in Hnoss’ hands, opening its eyes and looking at me with bright interest.

“What?”

“We found her three days ago by the brook,” Hnoss says, stroking in between the kitten’s too-big ears. “She’s doesn’t have a name yet because we were fighting over it. Vár wants to call her ‘Sooty’, but I said it was a really stupid name because everyone calls their cats Sooty. I want to call her ‘Lady’, because she’s going to be a sophisticated cat when she grows up, but Sjöfn and Syn hate it. I just think they’re stupid for not liking it. Then I thought you should pick.”

“Me?”

“Mhmm.” Hnoss holds the kitten out to me again, and I take her in my arms, holding her on her back like a baby. I fear I’ll crush her in my hands, for she feels so delicate, her ribcage tiny enough that I can wrap my hand around her chest. “So, what’re you going to call her?”

“I don’t know. I think someone else should pick.” Besides, I have never been fond of cats. Birds were more my calling when it came to household pets.

“No, Sig,” Syn says. “You pick. I think you should make it an ironic name, because that would be funny. Like Fat Cat.”

“That’s mean,” Hnoss says. “Besides, if she does get fat later, then it wouldn’t be an ironic name and not funny anymore. Sigyn, what do you think?”

The only thing that jumps to mind is Blíðýr, but it’s hardly suitable.

I shrug. “I don’t know, Hnoss.”

“Oh _please_.”

“Saying please won’t help Sigyn make a decision if she doesn’t have any ideas,” Vár says.

“Shut up, Vár,” Hnoss mutters.

“Girls, leave her be,” Father chuckles. “I’m sure she’s tired. Tea, Sigyn?”

“Oh, yes please.”

The old and cracked set of tea cups we had have been replaced by fine china. That reminds me:

“Loki kept his side of the bargain?”

All activity stops, and Hnoss cocks her head to the side. “Loki? That’s the frost giant’s name?”

I nod.

“Huh, just like that other guy. Oh, who was he?” She scrubs her face with her hands. “Never mind. It’ll come back later.”

“Loki’s not a rare name,” Gefjun says, coming to sit on the floor beside the fire. “Probably lots of people, and frost giants, apparently, are called Loki. Midgardians called their children Loki sometimes.”

“Probably one of those people, then,” Hnoss says, sitting next to Gefjun and stroking the kitten.

I take the peppermint tea from my father, and my younger sisters stand up and clamour for their own. I sit down at the new set of tables and chairs and bring the cup to my lips. The sharp, refreshing taste of peppermint that enchanted me when I was younger floods into my mouth like a snowstorm, and I sigh in content.

“Hey,” Hnoss says suddenly, perking up. “We could call the cat Peppermint. Pepper for short. So whenever we see her, we can think of now and when Sig came back.”

I feel as if I have been stabbed when she says that. They do not yet know that I am only visiting, but my mother is nodding along enthusiastically, and I cannot take her happiness away, nor my father’s or any of my sisters’. I will hold my tongue for just a little more. Just a little bit. I have to tell them, lest I walk out of them with no warning. The prospect of telling them is not one I look forward to, but I have no choice. So for now, I can pretend nothing is wrong and that we’re all back together for good. But inside, I am breaking.

* * *

The day rushes by. I am shown, along with lots of excitement, the new things my family has purchased around the house: the beds — a big double one and seven narrow things, including one for me — the refurnished bathroom, including a bright metal tub, a mirror, and soft towels, the cupboard full of crockery, the new glass in the windows, and a hundred other tiny things. Colour bursts in the house as well, and I sense my mother’s hand in many of the decorations. Silk scarves hung over the windows and the door frames, throwing patches of coloured light on the floor when the sun is particularly bright. Sjöfn shows me a small dragon made of coloured glass, each scale a different colour of the rainbow.

“I had to have it,” she whispers, “so I asked for it for my birthday.”

“You cried when you unwrapped it,” Syn says.

“Shut up,” Sjöfn retorts, closing her fist around the dragon and putting it back on the window sill that is now above her bed.

But I can understand why: after all, I had been overwhelmed with the utter wealth Loki has showered me with over the past three, nearly four, months I have been with him. I sigh heavily as he crosses my mind. I wonder what he’s doing now, if he is still moping and roaming around the country with Blíðýr, or whether he has turned back to the castle. Only the Norns know.

A little after midday, lunch is served. I have been on strict orders to be out of the kitchen, so Vár had taken me out to the fields to show me how the ground was in the processed of being turned for the new plantation of crops.

“I thought we should be planting something like wheat,” she says, “but Father wouldn’t hear of it.”

“Because we don’t know how to look after wheat,” I say, frowning. “Besides, there’s not enough room.”

“Now you’re turning into me,” Vár mutters darkly. “I thought  _I_  was the pessimistic one.”

“It’s not being a pessimist: it’s being rational.”

“That’s what I try to be, but yet you all think  _I’m_  being too dark.”

“There’s a difference between being optimistic and being irrational,” I sigh.

Our conversation is cut off when Mother calls out to us that lunch is ready. Vár throws me a grin before dashing back to the house.

“Oh, no you don’t,” I growl, and I run after her, determined to catch her.

She beats me back by the length of a fingertip, and we burst inside, out of breath and grinning like idiots. The air smells amazing, and Syn is suddenly tugging on my hand, seating me at the head of the table.

“Move, move!” Gefjun says, dodging around Hnoss as she tries to pick something out of the steaming dish that Gefjun lifts above her head to keep from her reach. “This is hot! Hnoss, sit down; you’ll get to eat this soon enough.”

I bring my hands to my mouth when lunch is laid on the table. It is nothing close to what Kokkurinn has been making for me, but the food is of a high quality and plentiful. And it is now of all times that the certainty slides into my gut that Loki has kept his promise.

“Sig?” Hnoss asks.

“I’m happy,” I whisper. I pull her close to me and kiss the top of her head. “I’m so happy.”

Hnoss wraps her arms around me and hums in agreement.

The meal — buttery mashed potatoes, garden vegetables, and a leg of lamb cooked to such tenderness it falls from the bone — was certainly more enjoyable, and far more lively, than any I have shared with Loki. But Loki is not a topic that comes up. Whenever one of my sisters, usually either Hnoss or Syn, tries to bring the subject of Loki up, my mother carefully steers the conversation in a new direction. I had underestimated her when she said that she didn’t want me to talk of, or even think of, Loki and everything to do with him.

“What’s in your bag?” Sjöfn asks suddenly.

I’d forgotten about my bag, and I get up to fetch it before my mother has time to divert the topic again.

“You’re going to like this,” I say, turning my back to the table as I carefully pick up the star dress. I shake it out as I turn, and there are gasps of delight from around the table.

“A star dress!” Syn squeaks, leaping from her seat. “Oh, it’s just like Mother’s!”

“Put it on!” Lofn laughs, and I grin at her in turn. There are eager nods from around the table and I gesture to Gefjun.

“Can you help me? The back’s ridiculous.”

Ten minutes later, I stand in front of the table, twirling around to show it off. I beam in delight when I catch the look on Father’s face — he was particular to Mother’s dress, and was quite possibly the most heartbroken out of all of us when she sold it. Mother’s own smile is tight.

“What else is there?” Hnoss asks excitedly. “Are there more dresses? How many do you own?”

“Many,” I say, “but I’ve only brought a few back.”

I leave some of the things in my pack, treats for another day, and the food is all but forgotten as I show the  _Kenaz_  runestone, some of the jewellery, and another two dresses to my family. Vár, who is just about the same size as me, pulls one of the other dresses on, the purple one. Syn is an instant fan of it, and I can see how desperately she wishes to own something similar, or to be big enough so it would not hang off her frame if she were to try it on.

“What’s this?” Lofn asks, picking up the runestone.

“A light,” I say. “I don’t know how to turn it on, Loki —”

And then I fall silent as I catch Mother’s stormy eyes. This display has tested her patience, and she raises her voice, now. “That’s enough. These dishes won’t wash themselves. Put those down, and Vár, take that off. I want your help.  _Everyone._ ”

Hnoss gulps and puts down my necklace with the  _Sol_  rune hung around it. She scoops several plates up at once, and hurries after Mother. The others follow Hnoss in action, and my heart starts to slow. I feel as if I have been found out for a wrong doing — deflated and miserable. I sigh before I roll the sleeves of my dress up as best I can and pick the mashed potato pot up, marching to the kitchen.

The afternoon is considerably more subdued than the morning. I don’t take the dress off, as there is little reason for me to do so. Mother will not hear of me helping out beyond clearing lunch away, and is insistent that I do nothing but sit and recover. I am bored out of my mind. I pick my way around the house, drinking in the changes. There is so much colour, and the problems that have needed fixing for ages — the weak section of wall at the back, the hole in the roof that dripped madly during the rain, and the way the stove tipped slightly too far to the left — have been repaired. My heart lifts whenever I find something new or improved, and I am more or less as happy as I was before when dinner is served. No one dares to bring up Loki or the castle, not under Mother’s hawk-like eye. But by the time the last dish is put onto the drying rack, I can barely keep my eyes open.

I slip into the backroom, calling for Lofn to help me with the dress before I pull my sleeping shift over my head and crawl into bed. Lofn hangs the dress up on the new wardrobe and comes to stand next to me, kissing the side of my head with gentle lips. “Welcome back, Sig,” she whispers.

“Thank you,” I whisper, pulling the thick, feather-down quilt over me. The candlelight shines through my eyelids as everyone else comes in, all of them coming to wish me a goodnight and expressing how pleased they are that I am back.

 _Only for a week_ , I think every time. I will tell them in the morning, I promise myself.  _In the morning. Let them remain ignorant for now._  The candle is blown out, and the room drops into darkness.

It surprises me how I, once again, cannot get to sleep. I have grown used to the softness of the bed in the castle, and this one seems much too hard and unforgiving to the small of my back. I squirm as little and as quietly as I can so not to disturb my family who drop off one after the other — many in my family are snorers.

I am almost asleep when I feel someone clambering onto the bed. For a wild, breathless — hopeful — second, I think it to be my nightly companion, but then I hear the gentle hiss of, “Sigyn!”, and I am brought back to reality.

“Hnoss,” I groan, turning over so to face her.

“Sigyn, you’re awake?” Hnoss whispers.

“Barely. What do you want?” I can only just see her face in the low light, and she props herself up on her elbow next to me, looking me in the eye.

“Mother’s asleep,” she says. “So, where  _did_  the frost giant take you? Did he take you to Jotunheim?”

“No,” I say, “but he took me to a place near by. He lives in a castle, a magic castle. It’s in the middle of the most beautiful forest, and the sun only shines there for three or four hours in winter.”

“What?” Hnoss asks, aghast. She hates the dark.

“It’s not so bad,” I say. “There are north lights there, and they illuminate everything for miles.”

“Are they pretty?”

“Very.”

“What kind of magic castle is it? Is there lots of snow?”

“It’s a castle made of stone and glass. It is filled with servants who you only must call for once before they are right with you. It’s full of good food and warm fires, and the very walls glow with light and the chandeliers with blue flame. And there are flowers everywhere.”

“Like in your book?”

I push myself up on my own elbow and look at her. “How do you know about my book? I was going to show you that tomorrow!” I am annoyed that my surprise has been ruined.

Hnoss, to my satisfaction, looks suitably chastened. “I’m sorry,” she says in a small voice. “I was just excited about your dresses. I wanted to see if you had anymore.”

“Hnoss, how many times have you been told it’s not polite to look in other people’s things?”

“I’m sorry, Sig. I didn’t mean it.”

I’m still not happy with her, but I nod my thanks anyway. At least she has admitted to her wrong doing and meant it.

“But the flowers, are they like the ones in the castle?”

“Those are special,” I say. “My bed, it’s really big, big enough that we can all fit in it very comfortably, and … I think my visitor knows that I get lonely.”

“Visitor? Oh Sigyn, he hasn’t …?”

I snort. “Norns, first Mother, and now you? So concerned about whether or not I’ve …  _done that_. No. I don’t even know if my visitor  _is_  a man. They don’t speak, they just come in after the light’s gone out and lie on the bed, and then when I wake up, they’re gone. But they’ve left a flower for me every day, and those are the ones in the book.”

“It’s definitely a man,” Hnoss says. “And  _I_  think he likes you. Why would he leave you flowers otherwise?”

“They don’t,” I whisper, my face growing hot; I am thankful that Hnoss can’t see me blushing furiously. “If they did, then I’d know. Nothing’s been said or done.”

“Maybe it’s Loki,” Hnoss says very quietly.

I shake my head. “My visitor’s warm; Loki’s freezing.”

“Oh good.” Hnoss takes a calming breath and continues, “Because a  _frost giant_  of all things liking you is stupid.”

“Yes,” I say, but I am distracted. I am thinking of the night Loki and I came back from exploring the castle ruins, and how I lay there wishing that my companion was him. But, as I have said to Hnoss, it is impossible, unless Loki can suddenly shed his freezing skin and replace it with something warm.

“But it would be like kissing an ice cube, wouldn’t it?” Hnoss muses, still in the fantasy of the idea. “Your lips would get frostnipped every time!”

“Yes,” I say again. “Hnoss, I’m tired. I’m going to sleep now.”

“Oh … alright. Goodnight, Sig.”

“Goodnight.”

Hnoss presses up against my back and whispers, “I can be your companion tonight. Would you like that?”

“Of course, little one,” I say, snuggling back into her in turn. “I would like it every night.”

“Alright,” she says.

She is asleep a few minutes later, but I am not. I am not tired anymore. I stare at the wall for the longest time, wondering for the first time in a long time who my companion is. It is not Loki, of that I am certain. I am not so foolish as to believe he can shrug off his skin like a coat. I do not believe in the impossible.

* * *

I wake up to giggling, and open my eyes just in time to see Hnoss put a handful of snowdrops in front of my face.

“Surprise,” she says, biting her lip and looking at me expectedly. “I found some flowers for you this morning. Will you press them?”

“Hnoss … what?” I ask, disorientated. “I … oh, yes, I’ll press them.”

“Oh yay! And they can go in your book and it’ll be so pretty!”

I snort and pull the book towards me. Hnoss pokes Lofn in the shoulder. “Come and see Sigyn’s book!”

I thumb through the pages, sounding the first letter of ‘snowdrop’ on my tongue.  _Sol_. I need  _Sol_. I flick to the back end of the book, quickly locating  _Sol_ , and I am already making the next letter when Hnoss snatches the book from my hands, gaping at the letters. “Sigyn … you can  _read_?”

“Barely,” I say.

“Why didn’t you  _tell us_?” she demands. “Can you teach me? Please, please,  _please_?”

“I won’t be able to teach you much,” I say, looking down.

Hnoss’ smile drops. “But why not?”

Despite my resolves the night before, it is not time for me to tell the truth; it’s too soon. I can’t do it. But …

I swallow. “I haven’t come back for good,” I whisper. “I … I’ve only come back for a week.”

Lofn’s smile falls from her face at once, and Hnoss looks horrified. “ _What?_ ”

“The deal has not been yet fulfilled,” I say. “Everything will be taken away if I stay: the beds, the food, the cat, Sjöfn’s dragon — everything.”

“But you can’t go again!” Hnoss says, her voice rising in pitch. “Sigyn, you just got  _back_!”

“I want to stay as well,” I say, but my protest is weak. I feel trapped and helpless, and my shoulders shake again. Lofn sits on the bed and hugs me as I clutch at her, trying to get a grip on my emotions. I won’t cry, I won’t.

“Shh,” Lofn murmurs, stroking my hair. “It’s alright, Sig. We can get you out of this. We’ve got more than Father’s skillet this time.”

But I shake my head. “I have to,” I groan. “I swore an oath.”

“Then … then we’ll kill the frost giant,” Hnoss announces. “The oath will die with him.”

“You? Kill a frost giant?”

“Runty ones can’t be that hard to kill,” Hnoss says, sniffing. “Father’s bought a hunting knife, and it’s huge. Like, this long.” She holds her hands about a foot apart. “You’re not going back.”

“Hnoss, this is my choice,” I say firmly. “I will go back.”

Hnoss looks so betrayed my heart breaks. Then she flees from the room, and I lurch, trying to get to her.

“Leave her be,” Lofn mutters, holding me tight. “She’ll come around.”

“I don’t want to go back either,” I say, but a part of me, however small it is, knows that I am lying. A small part of me wants to go back, has been tamed by Loki and the magic the castle offers. “Lofn, please believe me.”

“I believe you, Sigyn,” Lofn murmurs. “Of course I believe you. Hnoss is just angry. Wait her out. Please.” I feel her tears fall onto the top of my head.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice cracking with emotion. “Please, I’m sorry.”

“Hush, Sigyn,” Lofn says. “Hush, now.”

* * *

Despite what my parents wish, I throw myself back into farm work that day. It is all I want to do, and it is wonderful to work again, to see my palms grazed and bleeding slightly as my new skin breaks and old calluses begin to show again. I feel less like a high lady of court and more like me: scrubby little Sigyn from one of the numerous farms dotting the land. It also means that I have minimal communication between myself and the rest of my family. I’m sure by now they all know, and I can feel Hnoss’ accusing eyes on my back as I sow carrot seeds.

“It’s not  _fair_!” Syn screams at me later that day, stamping her foot when she corners me by the water barrel. “Sigyn, you can’t make a  _frost giant_  of all things make you do something you don’t want.”

“But that’s the point, Syn,” I snap. “I want this. If I refuse, then what will happen to you, to all of us? We’ll go back to what we had before.”

“The winter’s over,” Syn says. “We don’t need the creature’s charity anymore.”

Charity … that same word I was so hesitant to label his kindness as in what seemed a lifetime ago.

I shake my head. “Syn, it’s not his charity: it’s mine,” I say. “I’m doing what’s right to help you. I am giving you my aid.”

“Sigyn, you’re being selfish!”

“No,” Gefjun says, drawn no doubt by Syn’s raised voice. “It may seem that way, but please, can you not think of Sigyn? I’m sure she doesn’t want to go back as much as we want her; Hel, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s the most set against it.”

“So … what? Is this the mature response?”

Syn is the second youngest, only eleven months older than Hnoss. She shakes her head jerkily. “Then being mature is horrible. If it means not listening to what your heart wants, then why would anyone want to achieve that?” Her eyes are full of tears when she looks at me. “Why are you doing this?” She turns to Gefjun. “The both of you? I’m getting Mother; perhaps she can talk some sense back into you.”

“Syn,” I protest, reaching for her, but Syn is gone, running back into the house.

“I heard you and Hnoss talking last night!” she calls back. “I’ll tell Mother everything, and then she’ll never let you leave!”

“Syn!” I shout, but she ignores me.

“What will make Mother restrain you to keep you leaving?” Gefjun asks, curious.

I shake my head. “Hnoss’ stupid fantasies,” I mutter. I tell her about the conversation Hnoss and I had last night, about the flowers and my companion, and Hnoss’ theory.

“You’re not going to get away,” Gefjun says finally. “No way in Hel.”

“I have to,” I say. “I swore an oath.”

“She’d march into the heart of Jotunheim and kill Loki with a rusted spoon a thousand times over before she’d let you leave with him again.”

I laugh at the image that comes to my mind — Loki cowering beneath my mother’s wrath as she beats him black and purple with a soup ladle — but the amusement quickly dies. “But I have to go,” I say. “I have no choice.”

“A sworn oath is a sworn oath,” Gefjun mutters. “There is no honour to be found in the likes of an oathbreaker.”

I nod. “My point exactly.”

“So, where are you meeting him? Or is he coming to us again?”

“In the field we used to play in, the overgrown one that no one used.”

“Ah. Of course.” She scratches her chin as she muses, “He knows the area well if he’s picked that as a meeting spot. Or did you tell him?”

“I’ve told him lots of things,” I say. “Stories from when we were kids. I wouldn’t be surprised if that had come up.”

Gefjun hums, and she picks up her seed bag. “Well, we’d better pretend we’re doing something other than talking when Mother comes out. She’ll have my skin and your hide twice over if she finds us dawdling.”

* * *

Syn was good to her promise, and as such, my mother keeps a sharp eye on me for the rest of the week. She is so watchful I can barely go to the toilet without her knowing. It is as if she’s afraid I’ll climb out a window and run off into the night back into Loki’s arms. I feel like my personal space is being invaded and, as much as I missed her, by the fourth day, I want her to leave me alone. I take to sneaking out after dark when I am sure no one’s awake, wrapping myself tightly in my wolf fur cloak and striding out into the night. I wonder if this is how I will have to leave when the time comes for me to return: striking out in the dead of night without so much as a goodbye exchanged. But, I promise myself, if it does come to that, I will leave them a note, no matter how long it will take me to tease the runes from my memory and onto the page.

By the fifth day, I feel like everyone except Lofn, Gefjun, and my father, have turned against me. I know my father is devastated with the knowledge that I will have to leave again, but it is a quiet grief he holds, and one he hides well from me. I hear him and my mother arguing nightly about what to do as the seventh night creeps up far too quickly, and yet so very slowly. I hear her desperately coming up with ever wilder solutions to the problem, only to have them shot down through logic by my father. Her shoulders become bowed with defeat over the days, and I feel terrible for it.

As Lofn promised, Hnoss comes around the day before I am to leave. She is a permanent fixture at my side as I go about my chores, talking about nonsense in an effort, I think, to distract her more than me from the inevitability of my leaving tomorrow night.

“Kalda told me that her father once slew a dragon when he was a soldier, but I told her that was utter crap. ‘Your father,’ I said, ‘has  _never_  picked up a sword, in — his — _life_.’”

“Did you?” I ask, emotionless.

“Yeah, and  _then_  Kalda, and you know how much she likes to lie about anything as long as it makes her look good, told me that she would ask her father to come and show me the sword. So I went back to her house with her, and of  _course_  her father wasn’t in. I mean, what a big liar! No wonder no one likes her.”

“Yes; no wonder.”

The conversation around the table that night is forced, and everyone feels it. I want to scarf my food down as quickly as possible, if only to get away from the awkwardness. My stomach feels bloated when I finish, and as I stand, Mother also stands, even though half of her food still remains on her plate.

“Sigyn,” Mother says, “come. I want to talk to you.”

I groan internally. Oh Norns. She won’t win this argument; she is incapable of winning it. But I stand up and follow her to the other room. She holds open the door for me, and then she closes it, taking a deep breath. She fiddles with something behind her back, and I tilt my head to the side, curious.

“Mother,” I start, “I know what you’re going to say. I  _have_  to go back. I swore it.”

“I know.”

I blink. This is unlike her to just accept this, not when she has been fighting all week to change that.

“It breaks my heart,” she whispers, bringing the thing behind her back in front of her, “but your honour … it is important, and I do not want it sullied. Here.” Mother holds out a binding cloth, stitched through with golden  _Ehwaz_  runes. “Take it back with you.”

“But this is your binding cloth, the one you and Father used,” I protest. “I can’t take it.” Besides, what is a  _binding cloth_  supposed to do?

“I entrust it to you,” Mother says, placing it in my hands and closing my fingers around it. But there is something else she has given me; I can feel it through the fabric. I unwrap the object, and what falls out and into my palm is a candle.

It is about as long as my hand from my fingertips to the heel of my palm, and the wax is charcoal grey and feels somewhat brittle. It would have been smooth if not for the tiny  _Kenaz_  runes carefully carved into the surface.

“Mother?” I ask. “What is this?”

“For you to find the truth,” she says. “I will not have my daughter sleeping beside someone of whom you know nothing about and who could present you harm.”

“They haven’t done anything to hurt me,” I say, clenching my hand around the candle in anger. “They have not touched me, have not made any moves towards me, and I’ve never even heard them speak! Mother, your concern is appreciated, but you need not be. I am not a child who needs your protection.”

“You’re my child,” she says, “and I will always want to protect you. If I cannot be there with you, then this is all I can do. Sigyn….” She puts her hand on my shoulder, and I tense, looking at her unblinkingly. “My magic may be broken,” Mother says, “but it doesn’t mean I no longer know how it works. Sigyn, please, use it just to see who it is. You may be right in that they mean you no harm, but it would put my mind at ease knowing that you are certain that you’re safe.”

“I know I am already,” I whisper, trying to push the candle back into her hand.

“Sigyn, you can never be certain whilst this person is a figure shrouded in darkness.”

“But I do not fear this darkness,” I say, angry.

“I don’t recognise you anymore!”

My breath hitches. My own fears come rushing back, fears that I had in the castle about how I am slipping away from my old self.

“I am worried  _sick_ ,” Mother says in a low voice, reaching for my face. “What has the frost giant done to you? What has it done?”

 _Tamed me_ , I think, her terror infecting me, creeping into my thoughts.  _Help me._

I take the candle and wrap it carefully in the binding cloth once more. Mother’s shoulders relax when I do so, and she hugs me so tightly I do not think she would have ever let go, but she does let go, wiping her nose on her arm.

“Please,” she says, “keep yourself safe.”

I nod. “I’m sorry,” I say, my voice broken. “I’m sorry. I’m just worried for you … for me….”

“I understand; oh how I understand.”

“I don’t want to go back,” I mumble.  _But I do. I want to go back._

Surely I don’t, though? I am torn, torn to the point I am changing my mind every heartbeat, torn to the point where there is a physical hurt in my chest, and I hate it, loathe it entirely.

I am careful to pack the candle that night, wrapped it tightly in both the binding cloth and my purple dress.

* * *

My sisters and I reverted back to our old sleeping habit of lying together in a pile, and so when I wake up, it is to six warms bodies pressed against mine. Lofn is the only one who’s awake, and she gives me a grimace of a smile when I catch her eye. “When must you go?” she asks.

“I have to be at the field when the moon comes up,” I say.

“So, we have a little more time.”

“Yes.”

“Make sure you keep your distance from Mother; I’m sure she’s planning on tying you down to keep you here.”

“Perhaps you should make sure Father stays with her instead,” I say, trying to smile, but my mouth feels incredibly tight.

Lofn barks a laugh in amusement, and consequently scares Hnoss awake.

I work myself into the ground that day, stopping only to eat lunch and to quickly go to the toilet. I am silent all day, behaving much like Loki did in the weeks following the the Incident. My answers are singled-worded, my words bitten, my mood sullen. I feel numb, much like when someone who is known to you has suddenly died. And, I suppose, some part of me has died. My old self has died, instead leaving behind a different Sigyn, one with new barriers of iron around her heart. Yes, my heart is not as hard as someone like Loki’s, and I cannot help but think of what he said to me just before I left, about my naivety. I suppose, I think, he was right in a way. Frost giants were never really a widely spoken of subject in my household, but with these experiences under our belts, the disgust my family holds for them, especially my mother, is inescapable. I will be glad to get away from it, because I know Loki, and I grow tired of the false, ill-informed facts they throw around about him.

“Sigyn.”

I look up, scowling. I am on my hands and knees, covered in sweat and dirt. Gefjun stands over me, and the sun is maybe two hours away from setting.

“What?” I ask.

“The bath’s been run. Father thought it would be a good idea to wash up before you head back.”

I blink in surprise. Is it really that late?

I nod. “Alright. I just … just let me finish here.”

Gefjun waits for me on the path as I finish pulling up the weeds starting to creep from the ground, and I wipe my hands on my knees and head back inside with her. Mother is waiting for me by the door, and Gefjun moves to stand as a barricade between me and her. I thank her silently for it, heading to the bathroom.

The bath is a far cry from the one in the castle, even with the newfound money. But I hardly expected anything other. I scrub myself raw, and my skin is bright pink and the water grey by the time I stand and step out. Someone has laid my winter clothes out for me, freshly washed and smelling of peppermint, and I pull them on with slow movements.

The house is silent, and I again feel that same atmosphere of some deep mourning as I pick my pack up from next to the door. My family has agreed to accompany me to the field, trying to soak up as much time as possible with me. I let them, for what harm could it do? Besides, I do not want to undertake the long walk by myself.

“After you, Sig,” my father says. I take a deep breath before I step out the door, re-shouldering my pack before I strike out along the path to the main road.

During the walk to the field, there are a few attempts to start conversation, mostly from my father and Gefjun, but all are met with silence, and all tail off awkwardly. My eyes are fixed on the horizon, watching the sun sink ever lower until it set completely.

The style comes into view a short while later, and we stop. This is the end, I know. I will go alone from here.

I turn around to my family; my eyes feel wet. I am still for a second, balancing on the bare tips of my toes, before I launch myself at my father, hugging him close.

“Goodbye,” I choke out.

He rubs my back. “Stay safe,” he murmurs. “I expect to see you again soon.”

“What he said,” Vár says, grinning to hide her true thoughts; she often does that. “See you later.”

Hnoss reaches to hug me around my neck, and I only realise then how she has grown in my absence. It’s funny when you notice the difference a few months can make. As I think it, I pull her to me around the middle, and am overcome with joy to feel the fat on her ribs.

“Bye-bye,” she says. Then she sniffs loudly and says, “I’ll miss you.”

Each goodbye is unbearably painful, and the façade I have worn all of today is blown away like dust in the wind. My cheeks shine with tears as I let go of Lofn and turn, finally, to my mother. She is hunched over, hugging herself. I go to her, pulling her into a hug. “Thank you,” I say. “Thank you.”

“Be safe,” my mother says. “Find out who it is.”

“I will,” I say.

And then, whilst I still have the courage to, I let go. It hurts so much, but I must be strong. I have done this once before already, and I can do it again. Preparation doesn’t help at all — in fact, I think it makes it worse. After all, it is best to pull of a soiled bandage fast rather than pick at it. I have picked at the bandage this time around, and now I must rip it off. I climb over the style, refusing to let myself look back. I look at my feet as I climb the hill, and when I am a few metres from the top, I look up.

Loki is waiting for me on the rise. He is a lone figure silhouetted by the rising moon, and he reaches for my hand as I crest the ridge. I lay my palm in his, and his grip is tight, as if my hand is a lifeline.

“I thought you wouldn’t come back,” he says quietly.

“I promised I would,” I say. I do not want to look back to my family. I have already said my goodbyes — twice now — and I do not want to delay my departure any longer. “Thank you for looking after them.” He purrs low in his throat like the cat that now brightens my home.

I smile for a few long seconds and, after adjusting my cloak a little, follow Loki back to where Blíðýr lies. My mind feels clear, and the candle no longer feels like a heavy secret in my bag. I will find myself again.


	6. The Revelation

_I should’ve known that everything was proceeding far too well, too exact to my plan. The Queen isn’t one to give up her prey so easily. I was a fool to expect that she would have kept herself out of this, for, like me, she can’t be content with coming second. Her hand was subtle enough that I didn’t spot it, and subtle enough that it became my undoing. When combined with my hubris, it became deadly._

_Too many times in my life I’ve been ruled by others, shackled by my blood. I feel trapped, caged in like the animal I know I am. I had swiftly grown to hate my cage, and so when I thought I had escaped to only find myself yanked back in, I am broken._

* * *

I wake up in time to watch the last few minutes of the ride in silence. The treeline of the forest surrounding the castle flashes past. I listen to Blíðýr’s grunts and pants as he runs, and feel Loki’s heart beating against my back. I am of a quiet mind as the road disappears beneath us, and only stir when the icy flat surrounding the castle is all that is left of the journey.

“Hello,” Loki murmurs, squeezing me around my middle where he still holds me.

“Hello,” I reply, equally soft. I hear the clank of the portcullis’ chains and the screech of iron before the cavern swallows us. It seems darker than it did previously, colder as well, and I pull my cloak tightly around myself.

“Are you alright?”

I nod. I wish he would get off my back, his weight is far too comfortable for my liking, and Mother’s words now spin in my mind; her racism for him.

Blíðýr comes to a halt before flopping onto the floor, panting heavily and closing his eyes. I hear Loki mutter, “Lazy thing,” before he throws the reins over Blíðýr’s head and down into Brúðguminn’s waiting hand.

“My lady!” Brúðguminn shouts, mouth stretched in a grin. “Welcome back!”

“Thank you,” I say, sliding down Blíðýr’s flank after Loki.

Loki catches me in his arms, and I still for a second, enjoying the weight of them around my shoulders, before they fall away. He turns to the stairway and says, “Take Sigyn’s pack to her room, Ambátt, and put her things away.”

Thoughts of the candle rush into my mind, and I blurt out, “No!”

Ambátt, who has come into view, and Loki, stop and stare at me, confused.

“I … I want to do it myself,” I say, fumbling for an excuse. “I’ve fallen back into the habit of doing things like that for myself again, and I want to keep it. Ambátt, please, I shall do it later.”

“As my lady wishes,” Ambátt says, dipping her head before picking up my pack. As I watch her disappear up the stairs, a part of me is still intensely nervous that she will put my things away and so find the candle in the process. But if she did, perhaps she would think it a thing of sentimental value? I would of if I had not known the further meaning of the runes. But perhaps she does know them.

“Would you like something to warm you up?” Loki asks, holding his hand out for me. I take it, and we cross to the stairs as Brúðguminn attempts to haul Blíðýr away, but the animal is sat firmly on the ground more concerned with licking flecks of ice from his rough hide than Brúðguminn’s duties.

I nod eagerly. “Yes, thank you. Can I have some more of that tea? The sweet one?”

“As much as you’d like,” Loki says. “Although I will say something if your teeth start to fall out.”

I laugh, locking his elbow in mine as we mount the steps — I tell myself that I do so for balance. But even I am not so stupid to believe the lie.

When the door to the main hall opens, I feel as if I have been hit by a wall of warm air. My breath leaves my lungs, and a chill runs through my body, perhaps in an effort to counteract the heat. I pull my arm from Loki’s to shuck my cloak and jacket, sighing in comfort as I look up to the blue flames that line the chandelier, to the doors to the hall where I take my meals, and the small, cramped door opposite that leads down into the bowels of the castle. The veins in the walls throb with sapphire light as we cross the threshold, my warm things over my arms. There is an unbidden thought of _home_ in my mind, but it lasts for just the smallest of seconds before it slips from my grasp.

“You should change,” Loki says, looking at my thick clothes. “Dinner will be served in a few hours. Shall we retire to the solar as we wait?”

“No,” I say. “I want to go to the top of the castle, to the room with the glass ceiling.”

Loki hums deep in his chest. “Yes, an excellent idea. How about the idea of having dinner served there?”

My stomach leaps at the thought, and I am nodding eagerly before I can stop myself. “If it is not too much trouble,” I say. “There’re a lot of stairs.”

“It’s no trouble,” Loki says. “There are secret ways through the castle.”

“What? Like one of those platform and pulley systems?”

“A dumbwaiter, yes.”

I had heard about them as a child, and have always wondered what it would be like to ride up and down one. Perhaps I will ask, tentatively, about that later.

“See that Sigyn is made comfortable,” Loki says to Ambátt as he strides towards the great hall and shoves the doors wide.

“Of course, my lord.”

When the doors have closed behind Loki, I turn and mount the staircase, tracing the familiar path back to my rooms. Ambátt walks behind me, and every time I turn a corner on the stairs, I catch her smiling out of the corner of my eye.

“My lady,” she says when we reach the door. She produces the iron key and slips it into the lock, turning it until the mechanism clunks. The air within smells of lemongrass and I almost run inside, revelling in the smell. It hardly seems like I’ve been away for a week; it feels like, when I stepped in, I have merely been downstairs dining. I can hear the fire crackling in the grate in the suite, see the books pressing my newest flowers have been rearranged, Ambátt changing the paper out in my absence, and the surfaces of the tables spotless and shining.

Ambátt interrupts my thoughts, walking past me and to the bedroom with my pack over her shoulder.

“Thank you,” I say suddenly, watching her with a sharp, almost suspicious eye as she places the pack at the foot of the bed before coming back out. I breathe a sigh of relief.

“Shall I prepare a bath for you, my lady? Perhaps whilst you unpack?”

“Yes,” I say, and I try not to appear too startled as I hustle into the bedroom. As soon as the door closes, I cross to my pack, flipping the top open and digging around inside. I pull out the candle and stuff it behind the bedside table so it is nestled on the thin border and the wall. It will suffice as a shelf as long as the table is not jostled too much. I let it go hesitantly, keeping my hand near to make sure it won’t fall. It doesn’t. I straighten up, looking around the room, before my eyes fall upon the glass window. The last rays of the dying light shine from the west of the Troll Wall, and I pad over to the window, pressing my hand against it. The forest is beautiful, a contrasting landscape of blinding white and a deep, dark green where there are gaps in the snow.

A soft knock on the door disturbs me a few minutes later, Ambátt coming to say my bath is ready.

The water is scented with lavender, and I am saddened that it overruns the peppermint my bath back home smelt of. I must be caught somewhere between the strange combination of the sharp peppermint and heady lavender when I get out, but I do not fixate my attention onto that. Ambátt leads me to the dressing table, brushing my hair and massaging cream into the palms of my hands. They feel much softer than when I had left home for a second time, and I hold them to my face, staring at them almost blankly as Ambátt curls my hair.

“Is there something wrong, my lady?” she asks a while later.

I shake my head. “It’s nothing,” I mumble. “Hardly worth bothering with.” I curl my hands into fists and place them in my lap.

Ambátt has picked out for me a dress of pale blue. I have not seen it before; it must have been made by Saumakona whilst I was away. Like all of my dresses, it fits perfectly. It is sleeveless, and something that I would have considered borderline scandalous a year ago. The fabric trailing behind me is of a sheer kind, a darker blue than the main body of the dress, and hemmed with tiny crystals. They slither across the stone floor every time I move.

“No,” I whisper when Ambátt starts towards the make-up box. “It is fine. Is Loki expecting me now?”

“I will send word,” Ambátt says, dipping her head.

I smile at the thought of seeing Loki again, properly see him for the first time in a week. I tread on careful feet to the top room of the castle, heaving the door open. The sky is much darker than it was when I got into the bath, dark enough that several galaxies litter it. The north lights splash their colours off the snow, and I walk almost numbly to the sunken floor. I sit in the middle of the floor, my legs curled under me, my dress spread across the dark floor like water. My hands are in my lap, and my head tilted up so to better see the sky.

I hardly notice Loki walking in with a tray of tea, and with two sets of cups, I notice with utter delight. He places the tray down and says, “That must uncomfortable. Perhaps some pillows?”

“Hmm?” I look around, snapping myself out of my musings. “Oh. Yes. Thank you.” My backside is incredibly sore, and now that attention has been drawn to it, I can only wonder how I managed to miss the ache.

Loki goes to the storage cupboard he pointed out the first time we were here, and carries huge pillows under his arms, at least three on each side. He drops them to the ground and begins to fashion a fort of some kind, occasionally going back to the cupboard and bringing more pillows out. I join him, building and rearranging, until we have a messy pile of pillows, all thoughts of order abandoned in the name of comfort. Loki drops down onto them, sighing heavily through his lips.

I am sure the tea is cold by the time we finally settle down together, shoulders pressed against each other, and the tray balanced on our laps. Loki pours the tea, and I watch as it turns hot before it hits the glass tea cups. The sweetness settles in my nose, and I roll my eyes when Loki passes me the sugar bowl. I put half a teaspoon of sugar in, stirring it around as Loki puts … _three_ spoonfuls in.

“Do you want to rot your teeth?” I ask, sipping at the tea. It is almost too sweet for me to drink like this, and I dread to imagine what Loki’s tastes like; I’m surprised when his teeth don’t crumble right away when he takes a gulp.

“Sugar’s rare in Jotunheim,” Loki says finally. “I can’t help but crave it.”

“Well I crave it too,” I say.

“I crave it more.”

“No,” I say. “Hnoss craves it the most.”

“Hnoss?”

“My sister. When we could afford sugar, she’d steal the pot and eat nearly half of it. Every — time — without — fail.” I brandish my teaspoon at him to reinforce my point. I stop as soon as I realise I’m doing it, my cheeks pink with heat. “Then we had to go and hide the pot every time, but she’d always find it, somehow.”

Loki laughs, shaking his head in exasperation. Then his face drops and he says seriously, “Did you enjoy your time back with your family?”

The question sobers me up as well. I nod, lifting my cup to my lips to put my next words off as much as I can. Eventually, I run out of tea. “I did,” I say finally. I do not offer anymore; I fear my heart would tear.

“You’re angry with me.” It isn’t a question.

“I don’t know what I am,” I say. It is the truth. Yes, some part of me is angry, but another part of me is happy to be back, the same part of me that has stirred over the weeks and reaches for Loki. The part of me that allowed me to grow comfortable around him, the part of me that yearned for him as I sat in the solar looking at the pictures in _The Language of Flowers_.

When I offer nothing more, sitting and tapping out music on the teacup, Loki rumbles deep in his throat, his eyes half closed and shoulders hunched. He traces the stone in a gap in the pillows and says, “Sigyn. I’m sorry.”

I only nod. “The tea’s going cold,” I whisper. “We should finish it.”

The silence is not as awkward as it could have been. Our attention turns towards the sky, and we eventually lean back on our elbows, looking through the glass to the outside sky.

“Are there any jotun stories about the stars?” I ask.

Our heads are next to each other, separate only by a hand’s breadth.

Loki blows air through his lips, head cocked to the side in thought. “Some,” he says finally. “Some stories we share with the Æsir, for example the story of the eyes of Thjazi. The frost giants say that the stars are flecks of ice, and the galaxies were painted onto the sky with the blood of Ymir’s enemies.”

“So the sky is made out of eyes, Æsir blood, and ice?”

“You could say that.”

“Then what is the black?”

“Sigyn, you have to learn not to delve too deeply into these things. These stories are born from ignorance to the real happenings of the world.”

“The stories might not be nonsense to those who believe in them,” I say. “You’re very cynical.”

I wanted to tug a smile from him, but nothing comes of it.

“A product of my environment,” Loki says quietly.

Norns, this relationship between us is built on sand.

“Can we eat here tonight?” I ask. “Please? You said this could be used as a dinning room.”

“If you wish.”

Preparations are swiftly made for dinner. A table is brought out of the storage cupboard by a team of servants, and they set up chairs and places as Loki and I walk around the walls, murmuring quiet things to each other and avoiding the subjects broached earlier. We talk of my reading and writing, of the castle ruins, and of a hundred other inconsequential things that flit by. I am focusing on the conversation in order to repair the bridges burnt between us. I feel like I must, but a bigger part of me wants to.

Dark has truly fallen by the time the last piece of cutlery is straightened and we are called to dine.

“Kokkurinn has prepared the meal a little differently this time,” Ambátt says as she pulls my chair out — a heavy, oaken thing with a high back and thick, padded arms.

“I look forward to it.”

I do not have to wait long, sipping at some wine from a crystal glass, before the doors open and Kokkurinn himself steps over the threshold. The table has been set perpendicular to the door, and so I only turn my head to the side to see what has been brought up.

The shank of lamb is drenched in gravy and baked with garlic and rosemary. Potatoes covered in fine breadcrumbs and oregano edge the plate, all of it slathered with butter. Neat little piles of asparagus finish the picture. It is entirely modest compared to the other meals I have been served, but I couldn’t care for the less; in fact, a simple dish such as this is very welcome. There is no need for me to worry about waste or being spoiled for choice. I would like other meals to be this simple.

I note with bitter disappointment that this is the only full meal to come up, despite the other plates of accompanying foods other servants bring up — broths, bread baskets, roasted root vegetables, and a platter of fruit. Loki will not be eating. My stomach flutters with disappointment; I had grown used to eating together with my family, and part of me wants to scream and rage at him to just _get him to eat_.

“Thank you, Kokkurinn,” I whisper as the plate is placed in front of me. “It smells wonderful.”

“We, the staff, are most pleased by your return, my lady,” Kokkurinn says.

I nod, smiling a little before Kokkurinn retreats. I pick up my cutlery and dig into the food.

The lamb falls from the bone as I cut into it, and, my mouth watering furiously, I take a bite. I cannot help but groan. The meat is beautiful, neither to tough nor too tender and a little pink on the inside, and I hasten to scrape every part of the meat from the bone, mixing it with the potatoes and eating it all at once. Mother’s cooking is wonderful, but hers is nothing compared to this.

“Good?” Loki asks.

“So good,” I reply, attacking the asparagus and pushing it through the melted butter clinging to the edges of my plate. “It makes me wonder … Loki, why not try it?”

“The taste is … _off_ to me,” Loki says. “I doubt you would like raw meat like I do, and I can assure you the same sentiment applies for my consumption of cooked meat.”

“Then why not eat that with me?” I ask for what feels like the hundredth time. “Loki, I will not judge you, I will not be disgusted. Was it not you who said that I was stronger than you originally thought?”

“Sigyn, I have stated my reasons, and I won’t have this argument again,” Loki says tersely. “Why do you persist with this?”

“Because I am tired of eating alone, because I am tired of you forcing yourself to be isolated.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. Loki.” My knife and fork have been dropped, and I lean across the table, looking at him seriously. “Loki, please. Why do you not understand that merely spending time with me will bridge a gap? You pick and chose what you do in my company and what you don’t. Relationships of any kind — whether romantic” — I almost stutter on the word — “or platonic — distancing yourself will only create a wedge. The simple things need to be done to take the wedge away, and you can start by … by _bloody_ eating with me.” I am not one to often lose my temper, or to swear for that matter, but I can do both when need be.

“Did you not also say that I am here to help you?” I press further. “Then _let me help_.”

The silence is thick with tension, and it takes ever ounce of my will to keep my nerve, to grasp at that anger that has driven me to this point. I find it hard to hold onto anger, so very hard I am disgusted with myself sometimes at how I cannot hold a grudge for more than a day or two. I must hold to it now.

Loki and I are locked together in a battle of wills, grappling silently with each other across the tabletop. I feel Ambátt’s eyes boring into the back of my head, heavy with their worry and incredulity that I had spoken up to Loki. Loki’s hands are clenched on the tabletop, and his claws cut little half-moons into the wood. I tighten my own hold on the table’s edge.

“One meal,” Loki finally concedes after what seems minutes. “I will show you what and how I eat. Do not blame me when you reject me for it.”

“I can assure you I won’t,” I say coolly. But then the anger rushes out of me, and I deflate all at once. I pick up my napkin and wipe the grease and oil from my mouth before I rise from my seat, plate empty except for the shank’s bone. “Thank you, Loki, for this afternoon and for hosting me here, and for taking me to see my family. I am tired, and I wish to retire. Goodnight.”

And we are back to the hostility again. Loki and I clash far more than I would like for us to, but yet it seems we cannot help it. Loki is too wound up, curled so tightly in on himself that whenever I try to get him to unravel even the smallest of amounts from his stubborn, even bitter, ways, it is an altogether new struggle to undertake. But I will undertake them, for, despite what my first intentions were when I came to this castle, I care for him.

The breath in my lungs stops at that thought, and I must stand still for a moment, trying my best not to quiver openly in the huge room when Loki can _see me_. I do care for him — in fact, how can I not after all this time? — but I refuse to delve on how deeply exactly that care runs, or what kind of care it is. Whether it is the care of acquaintances, friends, or even more….

 _Impossible_ , I tell myself. _Hnoss was right. A frost giant liking me, and me liking one back, is stupid._

It is stupid. It is silly and stupid and _wrong_. But yet … No. I refuse to think about it. Loki is my friend. Frost giant he may be, but he is my friend, and my friend only.

“Goodnight,” I say again, forcing my chair back roughly and all but fleeing the room. Ambátt hurries after me, but I do not wait for her. I walk as fast I can down the stairs, pulse jumping in my throat, and the silks of my dress fluttering behind me. The speed has also torn the delicate braids in my hair out, and I brush fly aways from my eyes as I call back over my shoulder, “Goodnight, Ambátt. I do not need your assistance now.”

“My lady Sigyn —”

“Please,” I whisper, turning sharply on my heel to face her. “Please, just … not tonight. Thank you.” I cast her what I hope isn’t too soppy a sympathetic look before I grab blindly for the handle behind my back and tip back through the door.

I am troubled as I prepare for bed, gnawing on my toothbrush and running the comb through my hair roughly. My hands scatter the various bottles and trinkets lying atop the make-up bench. But I am alone now, and my mind becomes my enemy for I am without distraction. Loki is … he is infuriating, incredibly so, but that is only one facet to him. He is gentle when he tries, kind also, and possesses a strong will and holds the importance of conviction high in his heart. He is intelligent to the point where it somewhat scares me, introspective, and sad. So, so sad for reasons I want to know, to help him.

I grab up one of the bottles only to slam it down again, biting back my cries of frustration. Norns, what have I become?

I stomp to the bedroom, glaring at the fire in the grate. It is burning far too happily for my liking, and so I grab the pot of water seated next to it for emergencies and pour the entire contents onto the flames. They hiss, vapour rushing into my eyes as I drop the pot, stumbling back from the sudden cold. The room has been pushed into darkness, and I make my way to the bed with help from my memory — although I have them, I still manage to stub my toe on the bed’s dais.

The sheets are freezing, and despite the numerous furs atop the bed, I curl in on myself, rocking myself back and forth in an attempt to quiet my racing mind.

 _He is a frost giant_ , I tell myself. _They are monsters. They are barbarians, our enemies. Loki is a frost giant, no matter how tall he is, he is one of them._

But he is so much more than a crude caricature: he is a person.

Tears sting my eyes, and I bury my face in the pillow, cursing my heart for the emotions I am feeling, cursing the castle, Loki, myself, and anything and everything that has contributed in some small way to my being here. Perhaps, if Mother had not asked me to answer the door the night Loki came to our house, then I would not be the one here. Perhaps it would have indeed been Gefjun who had come as she had offered to do, or perhaps Lofn — pretty, cowslip curls Lofn whose smile radiates kindness and beauty. Or perhaps Vár who would have still hated Loki now as much as she did on the first day.

But then I am pulled from my thoughts by a distraction.

The door to my room opens quietly, and I must stop myself whipping around to watch my visitor pad across the room. My mind flies to the candle sitting behind the bedside table, but I dismiss it from my mind almost at once. Mother was wrong, this stranger wishes me no harm. They climb onto the bed and settle down with a sigh. I lay still listening intently for any further sign of movement, but there is nothing. My body, coiled as tightly as a spring, begins to relax. Mother was wrong. She was _wrong_. I am relieved my visitor has not stopped coming to me at night, and, despite my previously wild thoughts, I quickly fall asleep.

There’s not just one flower on my bed come morning, but nine of them. Nine roses in full, perfect bloom.

I press them to my nose, closing my eyes. “Thank you,” I whisper. “Thank you.”

* * *

I sink back into routine after a few days, until it’s only my memories that tell of my time spent away. Despite the stumbling on the first day back, the relationship between Loki and me is a thing that is fast become solid again. It is only a matter of days until we have reached a level of comfort with each other that rivals the one we had when we visited the ruins of the other castle. We have moved from the solar to the top room, regularly taking dinner there — the both of us eating together, for even though Loki ate his meal of bloody meat with nothing but a knife, it did not change my mind as he so feared it would — and spending our evening hours there. Sometimes, we will talk until the late hours and I am having trouble keeping my eyes open. I slip away to bed when I can stand it no more, and collapse, exhausted, atop the furs. Sometimes my slumber is so deep the only evidence I have of my night visitor’s presence is the flower they leave on the bed for me to find in the morning.

I find myself thinking about Loki a lot, even when I’m not with him. My mind keeps cycling back to my previous thoughts, and the time we have spent together. Especially when we sat together in the meadow near my house, when I had thought of him as beautiful. It seemed as if it were a barrier I have suddenly overcome, a dam broken, and I catch myself thinking it sometimes as I look at him. It is in small things I see a beauty to him: when I look up from my meals and he is looking into the fire, chin rested on his interlocked fingers and the orange light of the flames igniting the red hue of his eyes; when I catch glimpses of him shifting in his chair from the corner of my eye; when he talks and I sit in silence, watching him gesture with his hands to illustrate his words and expression alight with excitement.

I am most certainly happier the second time around than I was before. Peace has been brought to my mind knowing that my family are safe and well and Loki’s promise has been kept. I am comfortable where I am, knowing I am safe and liked, perhaps even adored, by the castle staff. And, despite my best efforts, my … my feelings — positive or negative or otherwise — are strengthening by the day. The positives overwhelm the negatives, and I forget about many of my troubled thoughts, including those of the candle. It, and my still unpacked bag, collect dust away from everyone’s eyes. I am happy, secure in my feelings, and I am glowing with health and pure joy.

Norns, if I died now, then I would die content.

Loki and I go back to explore more of the castle ruins four weeks after my return, and we find a hall full of mosaics, each of which is a different set of stories from the different realms. Loki tells me all of them — from the tales of dwarfen keystones, to human epics of slain monsters and dragons, to tales of the elven maiden who wrapped her silver hair around the moon to give it its glow, to the stories of the first ruler of Jotunheim, a half-wolf child who ran with her wild kin in the Night Forests millennia ago.

“She is merely called _nottulfinn_ — the nightwolf — now,” Loki says. “Her name has been lost to time.”

“It is a shame,” I say quietly, and my voice echoes in the great room despite the volume.

“It is the risk everything faces against the passage of time. This story lost that battle, and now all we have left is the barest of impressions.”

I entwine my fingers through his, leaning my head on his shoulder as I look at the mosaic of a frost giantess riding on the back of a leaping wolf. Her expression is empty, befitting of a mosaic. The dark trees behind her hold a steely glint to them, the needles of the pines looking as sharp as knives even in the mosaic.

“Did any stories of her survive?”

“No,” Loki says. But I do not think he is sad at the mention of a lost story; in fact, he turns his attention away from the _nottulfinn_ mosaic and takes me to stand in front of a story belonging to the dark elves, explaining how a long ago king stole golden oak leaves to satisfy the bargain of a troll who had taken his son. But the words feel like they are merely bouncing around my head before dissipating into nothing. Loki is an enigma, entirely uninterested in his people and even wanting to separate himself from them. Why, I wonder? What quarrel does he have with them — for I know there must be a quarrel of some kind? His size? Perhaps even he was not bloodthirsty enough. Loki has told me a story today how the elves cast out one of their own who was too beautiful for any other to gaze upon, and perhaps, I muse, Loki suffers from something similar. For I am seeing past the blue now, and he is beautiful.

It is a terrible thought, and one that I must keep close in fear of discovery. If it is discovered, then no doubt I will be shunned. I must suffer this in silence. To be doomed to only look.

His bare feet echo on the stone floor, claws scraping against it as he crosses to the story of the Mead of Poetry, tracing the bottom row of tiles with his fingertips before he murmurs, “Sigyn, we should head back.”

“But why? We’ve only just arrived,” I say, waiting for him to rejoin me. “Surely it is not dark yet?”

“I have been ordered to bring you back early by Ambátt. There is … there is something that I have organised for tonight,” Loki says, and I swear his cheeks darken a little in embarrassment.

I tilt my head to the side, wondering what he could have possibly done.

“You’ll like it,” Loki says in response to my questioning look. “I promise.” Then he adds a little sheepishly, “I hope you’ll like it.”

“You know me well, Loki,” I say. “I’m sure I will.”

When he smiles, his teeth flash in the low light. “Your confidence gives me my own … How different this is to when we first met.”

We are standing close together, now, barely two hand-widths apart. I want to reach out to him, to encircle his wrist with my fingers and so pull him close to my chest. I want to stay against him, to rest my cheek on his breastbone and feel the rumble of a purr in his chest and trace the ridges on his skin. I want these newfound thoughts to _leave me be_.

We are caught in silence for a few long seconds, both of us barely breathing, merely looking at each other. It feels like a chasm separates us instead of the true distance.

“Did you not say Ambátt is waiting?” I whisper.

Loki’s lips, slightly parted, close at once, and he swallows. “Aye. Watch your step.”

The walk back is horrible, and so very long. We don’t talk, staying in single file four feet apart the entire time. My thoughts crawl along like thick mud rolling through the grass — heavy, slow, and dark. I can’t think now: I can only exist, can only place one foot in front of the other and fix my gaze firmly on the ground. And it is the nothing that stretches the time out to an unbearable length. It is a nothing that neither of us are going to break. I trudge through the never-melting snow, the crunch of it filling my ears, and the snap of branches a background noise. I hear birds, too, the crinkle of fallen pine needles under my boots, and my laboured breathing. The air is cold in my nose, stinging even, as are the edges of my teeth when I draw breaths through my mouth. I notice my cheeks too are slightly wind burnt.

I wonder if Loki too is noticing these tiny things, or if it’s just me. I wonder if he doesn’t feel awkward, then he feels the tension riding in the air.

I cannot seem to cross the flat between the castle and the forest’s edge fast enough. I strike out as elegantly as I can across the snow, clomping through the drift unlike Loki who seems to walk atop it. Frost giant blood, I assume. I envy him right about now as I tire quickly.

Ambátt is waiting for me just inside the portcullis, and she comes to me at once, grasping me gently by the elbow. “Greetings, my lord,” she say to Loki, dipping her head few a few long seconds before straightening again. “If it is agreeable to you, then I will take Sigyn now.”

Loki waves his hand in agreement, his air suddenly haughty. “Be off, Ambátt.” Then, to me, he says, “I’ll see you soon.”

“Yes,” I say. Loki obviously is wound up, for I have never seen him treat Ambátt or any of the servants for that matter in a way such as this. I am smug for it; good, I was not the only one to feel the atmosphere. I feel deeply sorry towards Ambátt for having to take the brunt of Loki’s mood, though.

“Thank you, my lord.” Ambátt curtsies and gestures for me to follow her. “Please, if you follow me, my lady.”

I step after her as silently as I can, casting one last glance back at Loki before I climb the stairs.

I know that whatever Loki has planned is big because of the smell that greets me in the main hall. My stomach grumbles in response, aches, even, to the smell drifting through the doors of the great hall from the kitchen beyond.

“No peeking, my lady,” Ambátt laughs when she looks back to me.

I smile to hide the unpleasant flip of my stomach. Dread thrums through my veins, because Norns, what exactly has Loki planned?

“Ambátt,” I say, stopping on the first flight of stairs and fixing her eyes with mine, “what is happening?”

“We are treating you on Loki’s behalf,” she says, and before I can interrupt, she continues, “We _want_ to do this, my lady. Besides the preparations are already underway, and it would be a poor thing to do to bring it all to a halt and result in nothing.”

I close my mouth before I can say anything more. I do not want to retread this old ground, so I nod and follow Ambátt further up the stairs and to my rooms. Again, I smell something as I come in — lavender and what I think is vanilla hang thick in the air, almost so that I choke of the strength of the scents. They compliment each other extremely well I must concede when I have had time to adjust to the frankly overpowering stench of them.

“This way, my lady,” Ambátt says, holding open the door leading to the bathroom. Steam pours from the stone tub inside, coating the mirrors and the floor-to-ceiling window. Needles of lavender float in the water, and there are flowers on the surface, ones that I do not recognise.

“My lady,” Ambátt says, gesturing to the water.

I strip efficiently then climb in, leaning back so Ambátt may wash my hair. As she does so, I rub a pumice stone over my body, and, as per her instructions, concentrate on the palms of my hands, the soles of my feet, and any other parts of my skin that have developed callouses. It is a task that takes longer than I expect, only stopping when no more dead skin flakes off, by which time Ambátt has finished with my hair. I soap down my body before I step out, my feet feeling new and delicate as I pad to the other room. My towels are exchanged for a soft bath robe and Ambátt steers me to the chair in front of the make-up bench.

“Just lay back, my lady,” Ambátt says. “Relax.”

Over the next two or three hours, I descend into a comfortable doze. Sometimes I manage to pull myself enough from my state of relaxation to watch Ambátt in the mirror running her comb and her fingers through my burnished gold hair and to look to another servant who introduced herself as Naglasérfræðingur — a name that I cannot for the life of me make roll off my tongue — who had come in at some point to tend to my nails. She shapes and paints them a deep green colour, and the varnish looks as if it holds crushed glass when I move my fingers in the light, sparkling like faerie dust. She repeats this with my toes.

When the paint is dry and my hair to Ambátt’s standards, Naglasérfræðingur leaves, and I am bid to follow Ambátt.

“Saumakona has just finished,” she says, opening the door to the adjacent changing room. Saumakona waits inside, and she is alive with excitement, habitually wringing her hands every few seconds.

“Oh, my Lady Sigyn,” she whispers. “I have not seen you for such a long time, dearest.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” I say, stooping down a little to properly hug her.

She pulls away after a few seconds, cupping my face in a fond gesture and stroking her thumb over my cheekbone. “I am glad to see how well you are,” she says. “I was delighted to see from your newest measurements the weight’s come back to your bones. Goodness, you were getting thin before you left. How was your trip?”

“Excellent,” I say. “I showed my family the dupioni silk dress, and they were floored.”

Saumakona chuckles, pulling her teeth back over her lips in a smile that looks more threatening than humouring, but there is no air of malevolence to her. “I am glad my work is appreciated. And talking of such things, I have made for you something else. I do believe you will like it; you’ve been asking me for such a thing for a long while now.”

I want to ask what she means — for she has made everything I have asked for and more. Behind the wardrobe’s cupboard door, flung wide so to block my view when I came into the room, Saumakona unhooks a coathanger from the inside railing and brings it around for me to see.

What she holds is the most beautiful dress I can imagine. It is simplistic in its overall design, something for which I am glad for, for attention is drawn to the finery of the craftsmanship instead, and carefully tailored to flatter me as best as possible. It has a full skirt, the tiers made of sheer fabric and rippling outwards in small waves edged in silver thread. The dress itself is sleeveless, and the bodice constructed of an interlocking weave of fabric that will hug my chest tightly. The bottom end of each weave is decorated with silver filigree.

And if it were not special enough to my eyes already, what delights me the most is that it is made of the bolt of forest green chiffon I saw on my first day here, interwoven with black silk.

I clap my hands to my mouth in utter shock, looking wide-eyed towards Saumakona. The stout woman is glowing with pride, and her smile shows every tooth. “Well, my lady?” she prompts.

“Norns …,” I whisper, reaching out with trembling fingers to catch the pattern of chiffon weave making up the bodice. “I … I don’t know what to say….” I don’t care that my eyes shine with tears. “Thank you. Oh, _thank you_.”

I am the one to hug her this time, holding her as tightly as I dare after she hastily passes the dress to Ambátt.

“Sweetest girl,” Saumakona says, a soothing voice in my ear, “it is my pleasure. My absolute pleasure.

“Now come, let’s not have my work be for nothing. Try it only already!”

Ambátt and Saumakona help me into my undergarments, including a tightly wound corset more for the dress’ benefit than mine, before it is pulled over my head. I feel like a princess as soon as it is on, and I also feel like I could conquer the worlds wearing nothing but this and wicked heels. I feel so beautiful and empowered it very nearly does steal my breath away. I understand all at once how this becomes an addicting thing for the highborn ladies of the courts, finding more and more complex dresses and hairstyles and jewellery to wear to whatever function is next on their planners. But I feel that, whatever wonders they manage to come in, what I wear will outshine them all.

“Perfect fit,” Saumakona says as she bustles around me, tugging on a bit here and plucking out a stray thread there, but I pay no attention to her, merely admire the dress of black and green and silver. The colours go astonishingly well with my hair and eyes, almost to the point where I would have hardly believed such an image possible once.

“My lady.”

I jerk my head around, colour flaring in my cheeks when I am confront with Ambátt’s patient tone of voice. I wonder how many times she has called my name.

“Yes?”

“Please, if you would follow me. Final preparations must be made before your dinner.”

Ambátt leads me back to the other room to do my hair and make-up. She arranges my hair in a beautiful knot that tumbles down my back, at least fifty pins holding everything in place. It is woven with fine gold thread, not so to offer an outstanding colour, but simply to add more of a lustre to it. I never did pierce my ears, as Ambátt offered to do on my first day here, but it hardly matters now. A silver earcuff made in the image of tightly curling vines and flowers is placed gently over the shell of my ear, and the thin fingers of emeralds embedded in it remind me of the swirling patterns found in marble; the stones wink in the mirror. A silver chain is hung around my neck, and a matching circle of runes is painted over my left collarbone by Ambátt with the finest of brushes. This silver paint is then traced over the existing kohl lining my eyes, creating a black and silver double line that brings out the amber of my eyes. I feel so stunning I think even the legendarily beautiful valkyrie would have been jealous.

And finally, I stand ready before the full-length mirror, twirling around so to fully admire myself. If I had told myself a year ago I would have been here now, wearing the most beautiful dress I could ever imagine and looking fit for it, I would have never believed it. I look, I think vainly, divine — royal, even. I certainly feel it.

“Oh, my lady….” I think even Ambátt is swept away by her work — I feel as if she and Saumakona have really done everything, and I nothing of the kind except eat enough to put some fat on my hips to make the cut look so nice. “The Lady Freyja would be jealous just looking at you. The Lady Brunhilde too.”

“Thank you,” I say. I almost collapse onto a chair, unable to stay on my feet for the mad fluttering in my stomach. “Ambátt … I do not have the words….”

“It is nothing, my lady.”

“No. Your work, Saumakona’s” — I nod to her — “have made this happen.”

“What made it happen is you, my lady,” Ambátt says. “Without you, nothing like this would have happened.”

The comment makes me feel like royalty again, but not in the way it did before: it makes me feel spoilt rotten. I blush furiously and say to change the subject, “So, what does Loki have planned for me?”

Ambátt looks to Saumakona quickly before she has to stifle what sounds suspiciously like a giggle behind her hand. “Well, why don’t we find out? Please, follow me.”

* * *

Ambátt leads me up the stairs towards the top room. I must tread carefully, for I have graduated in my time here from kitten’s heels to full-fledged stilettos, complete with a heel that is barely three millimetres wide and forcing me up onto what feels like the very tips of my toes. I have to hold tightly to the handrail for support, pulling myself in a rather undignified manner up the stairs.

When I see Loki waiting for me at the top, I think I can almost cook a breakfast on my face for my embarrassment. And, for once, Loki has smartened up. His hair holds none of its natural wild curl and instead lays as flat as calm water over his shoulders covered with grey wolf fur tinged with red. The cloak it is a part of is stitched with gold thread in the shape of urnes knots, snaking wildly in and out of each other to build a picture I cannot fully see. There too is kohl lining his eyes, and it looks so attractive for a second I swear I forget to breathe. He is looking straight at me, standing with a casually regal posture — one leg bearing most of his weight whilst the other is bent at the knee, his hands clasped behind his back. A gold collar hangs over his chest.

His eyes widen minutely as I come to the top of the stairs, and I just manage to correct my stumble in time. In the heels, we are of a height now. I bite at the skin on the inside of my lip as I wait for Loki to say something.

His tongue darts out to lick his lips before he says, “You look beautiful, Sigyn.”

“Thank you,” I say. “Y-you too look … very handsome.” And dammit, I mean it. I quirk the corner of my mouth up in a smile and ask, “What is the meaning of this?”

“This is something that I say most unabashedly I’ve been waiting for a long time for,” he says.

My heart stops. There is a crawling thing in my mind, the most impossible thing screaming at me that Loki, well, his interest in me goes beyond that of acquaintances. Loki takes my hand in his and fastens a silver chain around my wrist. The links are so fine it must be dwarfen craft — no other creature in all the realms could have made something like this.

“It goes well with your dress,” he says.

I hold my wrist to the silver stitchwork and say, “That it does. Was this planned?” I am careful to bring the teasing edge back into my voice, if only so I cannot choke on my heart as it threatens to climb into my throat.

“And if it was?”

“Then I would call you a man who has an incredibly fine taste in jewellery, and that in itself is incredibly hard to find.” I give him a flirtatious wink that is so fast I think he might have missed it. And Norns, what possessed me to do _that_? I hope he missed it. He _needs_ to have missed it. Now everything I want in the world revolves around him _not seeing that_.

“Ambátt isn’t telling me anything,” I say at once, hoping that I have not blushed even more than I already am. “It’s not fair if you don’t say anything more either. So what’s happening?”

“Come and see.”

His grip on my wrist tightens as he turns to the door, pushing it open. He and I step across the threshold together.

The room is eerily beautiful, the only light sources the blue fire of the candles and the north lights throbbing overhead. The effect is one that makes the light ever changing, both in colour and angle, that I feel like I am standing underwater. A soft noise of metal windchimes stirs in the air, merely a background noise, along with an equally quiet sound of violin strings. It is everything I ever dreamed of as a child, so be able to stand here in a room such as this with a man that I care deeply for holding my hand and knowing that he cares for me back just as deeply, if not more so. I pray fervently he does, anyhow.

The table is set up again, steaming dishes waiting to be eaten by me at one end, and beautifully cut raw meat at the other. The majority of the candles are placed in the centre of the table, the holders decorated with winter sprigs of holly and mistletoe and silver berries. The room smells delicious, but under it all is a hint of cranberries that is a heady scent in my nose and makes me feel a little dizzy.

“This isn’t going to eat itself,” Loki says, and I give a choked laugh in agreement before we split int the middle and head to our separate ends of the table. And again, even though the distance is short, it feel like an ocean separates us. Another night, I think, I must move myself beside him.

There is a roast waiting for me tonight, wild turkey breast sitting on a bed of steamed vegetables and topped with sage. Ambátt pulls my chair out for me, and I lower myself into it before she places my napkin over my lap and retreats to the edge of the room; Þræll does the same for Loki.

“You may leave,” Loki says to them, flicking his wrist towards the door dismissively. They bow and leave, and we are alone.

I take the first few mouthfuls in silence, alternating between the meat and the vegetables and the bread sitting in the basket before me. Loki eats the meat at the other end of the table, spearing great chunks of it onto a wickedly sharp knife before raising it to his mouth and sliding the food off.

“So,” I say finally in an effort to break the ice, “you’ve been wanting to do something like this for a long while?”

“That I have,” Loki says, nonchalant. “I told you that this is to be your home, and what use is having an entire castle when you cannot use it properly? I would have liked to have done this earlier, but I was afraid I’d drive you away.”

“And the reasons behind such thinking?”

“I doubt you would have welcomed the idea of a monster trying to seduce you through the promise of civilised actions.”

I laugh simply because it is what Loki expects me to do, but my heart withers a little in my chest. Do I want him to be romancing me now? A part of me screams yes, the part of me that had awoken when I first met him and allowed him close in the first place, but the other part of me, which is just as strong as my first, belongs to my family, and my every sense screams no.

“This is a platonic pursuit,” I remind him, plucking a piece of meat off my fork. “Those were your words.”

“That they were.”

“Is there some part of you that regrets saying that?” It’s a manipulative question, that I will admit.

But Loki does not seem as phased by it as I had originally hoped. “Do you wish that I had not said it?”

The tables have turned back on me, and I must think furiously for a long few seconds before I say, “It would not be typical for the Æsir to wish what you suggest at, and as you have seen from my upbringing, I am that.” One part truth, one part lie. And a big lie at that.

“I have not seen you wear green before,” Loki says, pointing to my chest with a flick of his knife. “Why not? It suits you.”

“Saumakona refused to make me anything green,” I say, frowning a little as I look at it. “I don’t know why.”

“She should have made you a thousand green dresses,” Loki says. “In fact, I will ask her to make more.”

“Thank you,” I say, blinking rapidly before I reach for my goblet of wine. “That is kind.”

“You’re welcome.”

And then the conversation is punctuated by spurts of eating. We talk of the mosaics mostly, Loki listening as I describe something, and I in turn sitting in silence as Loki elaborates on what he has already told me, adding more details and rebuilding the stories over from scratch. I am enraptured by every word, clinging on and leaning over the table. My food grows cold quickly, and it has cooled almost to room temperature before I am even half done.

When Loki notices that I take smaller mouthfuls, he rises from his seat and crosses to me, holding his hand out. “Come with me, Sigyn,” he says.

“But the food —” I protest, looking back at my plate.

“Is cold,” Loki says. “If you want more, we shall send more some that is steaming. I doubt meat at room temperature is appealing; it certainly isn’t for me.”

That is true, and, after a second, I lay my hand in his. Loki pulls me up sharply, and I yelp as I bump into his chest. I have to get my feet back under me, the heels still difficult to balance on and I use Loki for a support. His body is steady, the perfect anchor.

“Sorry,” I whisper.

“Don’t be.”

“It’s al—” I cut myself off. “Thank you.”

Loki grins. “You’re learning.”

“That I am,” I agree. I notice that the music has grown in volume since I have gotten to my feet, and that Loki leads me towards the sunken dance floor. My eyes widen, and my legs freeze.

“Is there something wrong, Sigyn?”

“I … I,” I stutter, the picture of attractiveness. “I can’t dance, and these shoes —”

“Don’t worry about them,” Loki says. “Kick them off if they’re bothering you. And I can lead you.”

I do kick my shoes off, and they land in the shadows of the table before Loki leads me down the two steps and crosses to the centre of the floor, bringing me after him.

“Now,” he says, turning so that we are chest to chest, “hold my hand up here” — he brings his left and my right hand to shoulder height — “and your other on my shoulder.” I do so. “My other hand goes on your hip, alright?”

“Alright,” I say. I take a breath as Loki places his hand gently on my hip. We stand there for a while before I say, “Now what?”

“You just follow my lead,” Loki says. “It’s not hard; merely a three-step waltz.”

“A what?”

“A basic dance.”

“I know what waltzes are,” I say quickly. “How do you do a three-step one?”

“Just follow my feet,” Loki says. Then he turns to my left, leading me forwards, and my bare feet follow his at once. It is clumsy and childish, and I look down at once, but Loki clucks his tongue. “No,” he says, taking his hand from my hip to lift my chin. “Don’t worry about that. Just concentrate on me, and let your feet fall into their natural pattern.”

“Which is?”

“Pretend that you are treading a square, but tread only three corners.” We step again, and I miss a corner of my imagined square. Miraculously, we turn. “Excellent, just like that. Just do that to the beat.”

“You ask such impossible things of me,” I tease, but I do listen to the beat, and we fall into a rhythm of gentle sways and turns. “Where did you learn to dance?”

“I’m full of surprises.”

“Surprise me by surrendering some information about yourself for once.”

“Where the fun in me tell you all my secrets?”

“Does my eternal frustration with you make your life fun?”

“Yours and everyone else’s.”

“Oh good; I don’t feel so singled out now.” We continue to turn slowly, sniping pettily at the other the entire time until we have made a lap of the floor. Our dance is becoming more sloppy. Loki tried to spin me at once point, something which I was not at all expecting. I tangle myself in our arms, and I throw my head back and laughter rises from my throat, bubbling up from my stomach as I spin on the dance floor in my beautiful dress made of chiffon and lace and frills. I fall against Loki. His ever-bare chest is cold against my cheek, hard with muscle, but still flesh. I don’t know why that fact still surprises me, but it does. I look at him and think him to be made of ice. I am silent suddenly, very aware of how close my nose is to one of the lines on his chest. I reach my hand up and run my fingertips along it. Loki shudders, but he makes no move to pull away like the last time this happened. Instead, he closes his eyes and rumbles deep in his chest.

We stay like that for a while until I begin to shiver — Loki is a far cry from warm. He lets go of me, and I pull away reluctantly. I really am sorry to not be in contact with him anymore. He retreats up the stairs, crossing to the table where a warm pot of mulled wine sits. The music fades back into the background as I leave the floor, and I wonder if it is a finely tuned mechanism set to flare when someone enters the pit. It would explain the noise.

Loki passes me a mug, and I sip at it, watching the sky mostly, but also sneaking the occasional glance at Loki as he downs two cups to my one. When I put the cup down, Loki turns back to me, and his eyes are impossibly soft for being such a frightening colour.

“Do you want another mug?” he asks.

I shake my head, suppressing a yawn. “No, thank you. I’m just … so exhausted after today. I only want to sleep.”

Loki nods in understanding and offers me his arm. I take it.

We retreat down the stairs and talking in fast voices, my shoes dangling from my free hand that also holds my skirts around my knees. Despite the slow pace we set, it is all too soon for my liking we arrive back at the doors to my rooms.

“Thank you, Loki,” I whisper when we stop. I drop my skirts and pull my arm from his, hugging myself in a sudden fit of shyness. I gaze at the floor, worrying my lower lip between my teeth. I am finding it difficult to breathe through my mouth for both my lip and the fact that my lungs want to steal the air far faster than I want. I want to shudder, want sink into the floor, want to let go of my lip and gasp for breath, hyperventilating, before I collapse in a boneless heap. But before I can do any of those things, Loki takes my hand in his once again, and I cannot do anything at all, even if there were a knife at my throat.

“Goodnight, Sigyn,” he says softly. And then he kisses my knuckles — a bare brushing of his lips over my skin. The gesture is so unexpected that I jump, and Loki freezes at my movement.

I have to fight to find words. “No … I-I-I don’t mind,” I stammer. Then I say in barely more than a whisper, “Your lips were just cold.”

He runs a thumb over the back of my hand, and I shiver. It’s not from the cold.

“You should sleep,” he says finally. He drops my hand and leaves without another word. Part of me is left wondering how he could leave me standing in the corridor so abruptly, and I am surprised at how hurt I am because of it.

But as soon as he is gone, I run, pulling the doors open as hard and as fast as I can before I am inside and slam them behind me, gasping for breath as if I had just sprinted for miles. I can do nothing more that stand there and tremble and not collapse. My chest hurts for how fast and hard my lungs work, and it leaves me gulping for air like a fish out of water. I drop my shoes before I flee into the bedroom, throwing myself upon the bed before I bury my face into a pillow and simply scream. I have to make some kind of noise, have to respond to some primal instinct that demands me to express my feelings vocally, for I know I will never feel truly comfortable again until they are gone.

I lay there for a long time, shuddering and grinning and bawling my eyes out like a baby for the sheer happiness that floods through me. This is ridiculous, absolutely so, but, my mother always said, when things like this are fresh and new, there is no other way to respond. But eventually I have to move. I stand on shaking legs before I reach around to the back of the dress and undo the clasps keeping everything in place. I pull it over my head and lay the dress gently, ever so gently, over the back of a chair. The pins in my hair I am less careful with, dropping them on by one into the seat before my hair tumbles around me, finally freed of its confines. I almost rip the corset off and, once I am only in my underthings, do I bound onto the bed and pull the furs over me. I am thrumming with energy as the light dims, unable to sleep, unable to keep my mind from replaying the feeling of Loki’s lips on my skin, the sight of his bowed head and whipcord thin lines of his body, of the warmth of his breath on my hand.

I am wide awake when my visitor comes. It spoils the mood a little, I think, for my mind is otherwise occupied, but the hostility vanishes when they climb onto the bed, even coming closer towards me than they have for a long time after a few seconds hesitation. And then, for the first time in weeks, my night visitor places their hand on my hip. I almost make a noise in triumph, because, finally, what was broken between us has been fixed. It is yet another victory for me tonight, and I feel lightheaded with joy.

And then my mind turns to the candle. It is within reach.

“ _It_ _’s definitely a man_ ,” Hnoss had said. “ _And_ I _think he likes you._ _… Maybe it’s Loki_.”

Maybe. Oh Norns maybe.

But it can’t be. It just can’t.

But it very well could be.

Suddenly I want to know, I desperately want to know. I battle with myself for a few minutes, changing my mind every few seconds as to whether or not I should retrieve the candle and light too, to finally gaze upon my visitor’s face and find some answers. I want it to be Loki. I want it to be him so much…. But what if it isn’t him? Do I want to set myself up for that disappointment?

“ _Maybe it_ _’s Loki._ ”

I had filched a box of matches from the kitchens the day after I had come back, stuffing them in the bedside draw so I could light my match if I decided to. My hand itches to close around the box now, and I must force myself to remain still and my breathing to be utterly calm. My visitor is still awake. Their fingers move ever so slightly against the material of my underclothes, more so a shifting of weight than a caress, but my mind turns to what I want it to be, and who I want it to be.

It comes down to a battle of will, of who can stay awake the longest. I must win, I feel as if I have no choice but to win, and after what feels like hours, my visitor’s breaths even out in sleep. I still make myself wait at least another half hour to make sure they really are asleep before I squirm my arm out from under me. I cannot move too much, in case my visitor is a light sleeper and will flee if they guess as to what I am doing. The drawer to my night dresser squeals as I ease it open, the angle awkward from where I lay on the bed. I am hyperaware of the hand on my side as I slip my own into the drawer and grab the matches. I slide it back out and bring them to my chest, releasing another breath of air before I reach this time for the candle. It has collected a surprising amount of dust in the time it’s been hidden, and is ultimately the easier of the two to get a hold of.

 _Don’t_ , a voice cautions me. _Don’t._

I sit up withdrawing a match from the box.

_Don’t, Sigyn._

I strike the match.

As it flares to life, for the briefest of moments I am frightened that the hiss of noise might have woken my visitor, but they do not stir. Reassurance steels my resolve. I light the wick of the candle and, once it is sufficiently burning, hold it close to my companion’s face, just so I can _see_.

It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust, but when they do, my heart stops, terror and elation clouding my senses.

No …

No, no, _no_ ….

It _cannot_ be Loki. It just cannot be. This man, with his snow-pale skin devoid of dark tribal lines and most certainly not blue, matches Loki in every way, but it cannot be him. The Loki I know is jotun, the Loki I know snaps and snarls around me when his short temper frays all too often, and the Loki I know would not lie on my bed at night and not say a word about it. But the resemblance between the two is uncanny, frightening even. And if it is him, then the secret wish that had burnt in my chest, the hope that it has indeed been him who has crept into my room and slept on my bed, has been granted. Giddiness sweeps up inside of me, and despair that I have not been able to see him like this before, without the colour or the rough lines that make his features so much more harsher and alien.

My hands are shaking so much that the wax that has pooled in the candle’s tip falls down the side. Falls onto Loki. His eyes snap open as it drips onto his skin. His eyes are a brilliant emerald green, and even in the poor light the candle offers, they shine like precious stones cut for a monarch’s crown. The moment is broken however when he rolls off the bed with a strangled cry of alarm. He brings half of the furs with him in his tumble, and I am jerked forward, barely keeping the candle upright as I fall onto my hand. Burning hot wax drips onto my skin, and I gasp in pain.

“Sigyn,” Loki whispers, horror colouring his voice, “what have you done?”

“Loki?” My mouth is as dry as autumn leaves, and the flame trembles in time with my shaking hand. “I … I don’t understand.”

Hurt flashes in those emerald eyes and his voice, no longer deep and gravelly, is full of despair. “What have you _done_?”

I shrink back. “What’s happening?” My voice no louder than a mouse squeak, and my heart is hammering as fast as a mouse’s, too. “Please, I don’t understand. Loki —”

I am cut off by the low growl in his throat, but it is not directed at me. It is more so directed at himself. He looks away, gasping for breath and says, once again to himself, “I needed a year. All that was asked for was a _year_.”

“Loki please. Please tell me what is going on,” I beg. “You can talk to me. Please, just say something.”

“It’s too late,” he says, eyes flicking back to mine. “The bargain has been lost. You can’t do anything for me, Sigyn. Not anymore.”

I don’t know what I could have possibly done for him if he has kept something like this from me. My heart breaks as I watch him, and my mouth open a little as I struggle to understand. A bargain. The bargain he struck with me? For me to come with him? It has not been lost or broken as far as I am aware. I am here, alone with him apart from the servants. In return, my family is being fed and cared for. No part of the bargain has been broken as far as I am aware.

“Loki, what bargain has been broken?” I ask, my voice no more than a whisper.

He grits his teeth and grips his hair, turning away from me and drawing sharp, jagged breaths between his teeth. I think I catch the glint of unshed tears in his eyes.

“Come,” he bites out in a strangled voice. “Follow me. I have much to tell you.” He swallows several times before he says, “Are these things not best discussed over tea?”

* * *

Loki doesn’t call on Kokkurinn to prepare the tea — he does it himself. We are in the deserted kitchen, standing in only our small clothes and goosebumps. Loki’s long-fingered hands are like spiders as he opens the tin and puts the pinches of dried leaves into two mugs, boiling the kettle with a flick of the wrist. I stand in silence and only watch him. It is taking me some time to get used to him as he is: pale-skinned and green-eyed and the dark lines vanished from his body.

“Here.” He turns back to me and offers me one of the mugs. I take it, but I don’t drink any of the tea. It takes me a while to figure out that I’m angry. Angry that he didn’t tell me he was sleeping on my bed, angry that he didn’t tell me he can look … _normal_. My silliness, something I can now hardly believe I felt, is gone, replaced by cold anger. All of the fear of those first few weeks when I still shared the castle with a savage frost giant is a bright memory. Fear for no reason, apparently.

So I start with that: “Why didn’t you tell me you were Æsir?”

“I’m not Æsir.” Loki doesn’t drink his tea either, merely leans back on the table looking far more relaxed than I would like him to be.

“Then why didn’t you tell me that you could turn yourself into one?” I whisper hotly.

“It’s a long story.”

“Well I have all night to listen to it.”

“You think I chose this?” he demands, slamming his cup on the table. The tangent he has gone off on is a wild one, but the question angers me so much that I don’t care then. His eyes flash as he glares at me, and I meet his gaze coolly; I refuse to back down.

“I’d assume so,” I say. “I’m not stupid. I heard Þræll talking to Ambátt, saying how —” I take a breath: to root myself. “They called you Loki the Liar. I’ve heard it somewhere before, but I can’t remember where. But do you know what I felt I heard that name?” I wait for him to say something, but after a few seconds of silence, I say, “I felt anger, and revolt, and disappointment. But it was like some distant memory, like I can’t remember _why_ I felt those things.”

Loki scoffs. “The Allfather is excellent at cleaning up after himself. I’m not surprised.”

“What? _Why?_ ” I demand.

“Because I’m a prince.”

The confession does not surprise me in the slightest. It explains his wealth, the castle.

“I’m cursed,” he continues. “I’m not full Æsir. I’m a half blood: half-Æsir, half-jotun. My curse is that by day I look like a monster, and by night I look like _me_. This is the shape I grew up in. I grew up in Asgard’s royal courts.”

I freeze. “You are a prince of _Asgard_?” My anger is forgotten now. I am truly surprised by _this_ confession. “But … then don’t I know who you are — why doesn’t anyone?” I am thinking of my family; surely they would have recognised him. Portraits of the royal family are minted on the currency. How did _I_ not recognise him? But then Hnoss … something had stirred in her memory. It must have been this.

“The Allfather cleans up after himself; after all, he cannot have the royal jotun bastard exposed and then running amok.” Loki’s gaze is far away as his fingers dig into the table. “And what have I done to deserve this curse where I cannot control my own body? I was born. That anger you felt is the spell Odin has woven to make people forget of my existence, and the anger you felt is his anger towards me.”

“Then why did you take me?” I whisper.

“Because you could break my curse.”

“‘Could’?”

His green eyes look almost black when he turns them on me. “You ruined it. You saw me in this skin, and I must go back to the jotnar. To my mother.” He straightens up, and he looks frightening. “I needed you to live with me for a year, and not a single whisper of the existence of my Æsir skin was to reach your ears. But now here I am. I only had one chance to break this curse to win the bargain set before me, and you ruined it.”

“Don’t you dare blame me,” I snap. “You’re the one who’s been pushing it by sleeping _on my bed_.”

“I had no choice,” he snarls. “It was part of the conditions. I hope to the Norns it’s been amusing.”

“Conditions?”

“Conditions of the bargain,” Loki snaps. “You asked what bargain has been broken. One of mine, if you must know.”

“Who did you strike it with?” I demand. “Who?”

“She who lives in castle of rock and bone. She who lives so far away nothing could find it without knowing where to look. She who is Queen and is feared by all.”

“Why must you talk in riddles?” I ask. “What does that achieve?” But then my mouth hardens into a tight line. “I suppose you can’t tell me that either.”

“Naturally.”

I take a sip of my tea, just for something to do as I run everything through my head. Loki, a bastard prince, and one with wealth like this? And what is this bargain that has been broken? And, perhaps the most intriguing question of them all, who is the Queen? Who is she that she is feared by all?

The thought stops there.

The cup falls from my suddenly loose fingers, and the china smashes on the flagstones. “Loki?” I slide onto the floor, but Loki’s there, his arms wrapped around my chest as he catches me. My vision is darkening, but not so much that I can’t see him. He looks angry.

“Are you happy now?” he demands. He doesn’t talk to me. He has lifted his head towards the ceiling and talks to that. Loki turns his gaze back to me, pressing his forehead to mine. “I’m sorry,” he chokes. “I’m sorry. Forgive me. I have to go.”

“Where?” I force out. I can’t hold on much longer.

“Jotunheim,” Loki tells me. There is fear in his voice, of that I am sure. “They’re coming.” From over his shoulder, I can see a bright gold light — the bindrune.

I hear something from outside, a deep howl that chills me to the core. It is not the howl of a wolf, but one that belongs to something much more frightening. I will never forget the sound, of that I am sure. Then there is a terrible screech, like rock grinding against rock, and Loki holds to me tight. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.”

Then I sink into the dark, reaching for Loki, but he is like smoke slipping through my fingers despite how tightly he holds me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story will be taking a darker tone from here on, but hopefully it'll still have that fairytale vibe to it as it current has. Thank you, and see you next month if Uni assignments don't bury me! But if they do bury me, then know I will try and get the next chapter out ASAP, as unfortunately a lot of them are due around April 10th or just before it, cutting deeply into my writing time. I'll post updates to [my Tumblr](http://englishbutter.tumblr.com) about the chapter and any kinds of delays.


	7. The Journey

_The river that separates Jotunheim from the rest of the realms is called the Ifing. I’d told Sigyn the day she arrived that my favourite view from the castle was the eastern one. In the end, it was for a reason that was simple in its logic: from the east, I couldn’t see the river’s bend poking from behind the Troll Wall._

_Five days have passed since the bindrune on my shoulder sealed, and because of it I am trapped in my jotun form as I’d been the years before Sigyn came to the castle. That’s the cruelest thing that has happened since she saw my Æsir face. That in itself had shattered me, for the hope that had dangled from a fish hook in front of my nose had suddenly become unobtainable. I felt like a donkey chasing my master’s carrot, only to get the whack of a stick to my arse._

_After I was forced to leave Sigyn behind at the castle, I was taken by the jotnar come to collect me, bound and gagged so tightly I haven’t been able to move so much as a fingertip. My stomach howls for food, and my legs have cramped more times than I care to recall. All in all, I am wretched, pathetic, helpless as a newborn. I ache. It shouldn’t surprise me as much as it does how little the Queen cares for me personally, but I’d hoped for better than to be crammed into a lightless, airless box and pulled along without pause by fully grown_ ísverur _; the putrid smell of them has crept in through the wood over the past days. The chains and bit in my mouth cut into my skin, crusting it with dry blood. I’d tried shouting and bellowing at my captors, snarling through the spiked mouthpiece pressing my tongue down, but they’d ignored me. I was half their size, a child to them, and nothing more than a chore to bring back to their mad queen. I hate them, but I hate them only slightly less than I hate Father._

_The box is suddenly tipped and I roll out, hitting the floor with a shout stifled by the mouthpiece. But the chains fall from me, and I reach up to my mouth, wrenching the gag from between my teeth and gasping with relief as I spit out black blood. But it is a relief that is short-lived as someone shifts their weight. I look up, and my gut clenches. The Queen sits before me on her throne of ice, and her mouth stretches into a smile that chills me as the cold never will._

_“Greetings, son of mine,” she whispers. I scramble back on my elbows in a pathetic attempt to escape, but I am pushed forward again, roughly. I cry out as I land face-first on the floor, cracking my head and biting my tongue with my too-sharp teeth. Pain lances from my forehead and cheekbone, and soon, I feel a new trickle of blood down my face. All I can do is look away and nurse my wounded pride. “Loki Laufeyjarson,” the Queen — my mother — says. She is unconcerned with my pain, and triumph sparkles in her eyes. “I have won the wager, and you are mine.”_

* * *

I wake to cold stone and the bitterness of loss in my mouth. “Loki,” I gasp, sitting upright and looking around. I think at first that I am still upon the kitchen floor, but when I turn my head, it is to see the familiar view of the outside landscape from my bedchamber. The room’s furniture is gone, and it as bare as the day the walls were finished being built. I lie on the floor, huddled by my wolf fur cloak and animal pelts. My pack rests next to me, still full of my things from my trip, including _The Language of Flowers_ , my star dress, my mother’s hand binding cloth, my _Kenaz_ runestone, and Loki’s falcon feathers.

I didn’t give them back. I’d forgotten about them. And then guilt hits me, as hard as a punch to the chest.

There are a thousand sorries poised and ready to be given life on my tongue, but what good are apologies if they are said to no one? Sorries are useless, because saying sorry won’t change anything; Mother had often said it was a nothing word, and it is only now that I understand what she meant. But it does not stop them spilling from my mouth. I feel as though I will vomit glass at any second, so sick and cut up am I inside. The deepest regret swamps me, and it feels like a stone crushing my chest, closing my throat so that I cannot breathe —

I swallow, trembling minutely, before I manage to wedge myself up into a sitting position. It is deathly cold, and I clutch my cloak tightly to me, shivering as I stand on legs as shaky as a newborn fawn’s. “Ambátt,” I call. I pause, waiting for a few seconds, but Ambátt does not come. This is the first time she has not. “Ambátt!” I flinch as I rest my feet on the cold stone, and they are soon numb as I stumble from the bedroom to the atrium. “ _Amb_ _átt!_ ” Still nothing. The walls here are bare too. The tapestry of flowers is gone, and the room is dark and uninviting. When I look into the bathing chambers, the only things left are the bath and the vanity. I cross to the bath, crouching by it and shivering madly. I had hoped to warm myself up by turning on the hot water, but the tap twists endlessly, and not a drop comes out.

I find it strange then that this of all things is what finally begins to sink in the realisation that I am alone. But I am far past giving up yet.

I tear from the bathroom, bursting through the doors to my rooms and shouting, “Ambátt!” My voice echoes down the stairs — empty and silent and as dark as the winter nights — Ambátt’s name ringing forth a thousand times before it finally fades into silence. I take a flight of stairs down, ignoring the numb protest of my feet and hoping that my ankles won’t snap. My lip trembles as I wander from room to room, shouting the names of the staff. “Saumakona? Þræll? Kokkurinn? … Brúðguminn?”

No one comes.

“Loki …?” I ask in a tentative whisper.

Silence.

“Norns…. _Norns_ —”

I scream in outrage, and I feel like kicking something, like tearing something apart with my hands, to _destroy_. I feel like destroying myself mostly. I fall hard into one of the walls, bitter tears stinging my eyes as I cry out my heart’s pain to an empty castle. My sobs echo pathetically, but I cannot bring myself to care. I cry until my throat feels raw, my breaths are ragged and hoarse, but yet I hardly feel any better.

 _Stop it_ , I snap to myself, hugging my knees and rocking back and forth. _You_ _’re stronger than this. Get up!_

 _“I am stronger than you paint me as,”_ I had said to Loki. I certainly don’t feel it now.

“Idiot,” I whisper harshly, scrubbing the heels of my palms into my eyes. _Think, Sigyn. Think._

All I can think of is my sisters.

It was summer, and all I could hear was my gasps for air as I ran with a stitch in my side, the _zing zing zing_ of summer cicadas, and the soft _shish_ ing of the dried grass against my skirts. It was a fight that made me push on through the pain of a crippling stitch, and the burning need to apologise — to set things _right_ — had been a more pressing issue than my side.

It hadn’t been surprising to find Áli and Lofn sitting in the crook of a tree in the abandoned field near the farm, shredding woven grass rings before plucking more blades from their laps and starting all over again. I could see the bloody scrape I’d given Áli standing out as clear as day on his shin, his leg kicking at the air beneath him. It had been a hard apology to make to him, but, after sitting down and talking with Mother, I had conceded to shelve my pride to rescue our friendship that day.

That was before Áli’s family had moved away.

Away….

Jotunheim, Loki had said.

No.

It is impossible.

But yet, the question is, am I desperate enough to go after him?

I kick myself mentally. What a stupid, cowardly thought.

For of course I would. I would do everything I could to go after Loki, if only to repay him for everything he’s done for me and my family.

_Dry your eyes, Sigyn. Dry them._

I need to be able to get to Jotunheim and the castle Loki spoke of first without dying. And I doubt I could walk all the way there. Possibilities spin in my mind. Perhaps I could take the road out of the forest and walk until I find a village. I could trade some of my possessions for a sled and pack of dogs before I turn towards Jotunheim. Or …

Blíðýr.

I straighten up and run to my rooms. I burst into my dressing chamber, and I can only raise an eyebrow — one part in exasperation, and another part for sheer surprise — when I’m met with my deep winter clothes. What just happened last night after I fell into sleep? Did Loki bring me back up here, lay out my things, and then take away every piece of furniture before vanishing along with the servants? The burning questions only add to my steely resolve. I pull on my clothes, feet coming back to life as they warm in my boots. Unfortunately, I have only been able to find two pairs of socks — when I’m in Jotunheim, I’ll have to do my utter best that at least one pair stays dry; I’ll be forced to give up if my feet become useless.

I retrieve my pack from the other room and pack all the clothes I can find, grunting as I swing the bulging thing onto my back before I totter to the stairwell. There are several moments when I feel as if I’ll topple over, especially when I make my way down the steps to the cavern. It is a relief to drop the pack, and I take off into the side cavern where Brúðguminn always took Blíðýr. It cuts back a short way into the mountain, bending around a dog leg. My footsteps echo loudly, and, as if in response, there is a barking whine from deep within the cavern. I almost sob in relief.

“Blíðýr!” I call, running and stumbling towards his cries.

I am greeted by a huge set of double doors, locked with an enormous, heavy bar. I struggle to push it out of the brackets, but when I do finally manage it after almost five minutes, Blíðýr runs out. I think he is shaking just as much as I am. I remember all of a sudden how Loki had said he was nothing more than a pup. I hadn’t fully believed him before, but what I see now before me reminds me of a lost child.

“Shush now, Blíðýr.” I pet him awkwardly on the nose, shushing him as he presses his snout against me gently enough not to push me over; I still have to dig my heels in to remain upright. “Are you hungry?” I whisper. Immediately, Blíðýr perks up. He snuffles once before he fixes his bloody eyes upon me. I swallow. “I need your help,” I say, and I don’t even care that he might not understand me; I just need to articulate my thoughts, to use Blíðýr as a drawing board. “Loki’s gone, he’s been taken to Jotunheim, but I can’t get there by myself. Can you take me?”

Blíðýr is still, unusually so. Perhaps, I note, he can understand me.

“Please, Blíðýr. I need to set this right. This is my fault. Mine….” I blink long and hard to keep my tears back.

Blíðýr whuffs lowly, tail skittering across the floor. I hope it is an agreement.

“I’ll let you out to hunt if you promise to come back before the sun rises,” I say. That will, if I’m right, give me a mark of about three hours to get ready. “Yes?”

Another whuff, and I stand aside as Blíðýr lopes into the cavern. I only notice the problem of the portcullis once I’m standing before it. Blíðýr sits in front of it, swinging his tail across the ground, the spiked club at its end knocking the walls with a fearsome sound. Oh….

The portcullis had always been open when I’d had need of it, and I can only recall two instances when I had seen someone command its opening before: when Ambátt had opened it on my second day here, and when Loki opened it the day we when to the ruins. Ambátt had said, “Lift the gate, Dyravörðurinn,” whilst Loki had only waved a hand.

I try both. “Lift the gate, Dyravörðurinn,” I say loudly, waving my hand in an upwards motion.

Nothing happens.

I scowl, frustrated, before I try again, flourishing vigorously with my hands. “Lift the gate, Dyravörðurinn!”

Still nothing.

Blíðýr huffs, and before I can try a third time or tell him to shut up, he rises onto his back legs and throws his weight at the portcullis. The sound of his claws against the metal is frightful, and I clap my hands over my ears. He’s made a small dent, and Blíðýr backs up before running and slamming against it once, twice, three more times, before the metal gives. Blíðýr hooks his claws into the hole he’s made, snarling in the effort to open the gap enough before he hits his tail into the wooden doors. They splinter all at once, and Blíðýr makes quick work of scrabbling his way to freedom. I can only gape at the destruction, wood chips fluttering through the air. I notice too Blíðýr’s footprints leave bloody marks upon the snow, but he is already halfway across the tundra, seemingly unconcerned with it in the face of freedom. I’ll address the problem later.

And then I turn and head upstairs, my mind working furiously as I head into the great hall and the kitchen beyond. I don’t bother to shut the door behind me, and instead stand upon the threshold, hands on my hips, and taking in everything in front of me. The huge table that had once dominated the room is gone, as is everything that wasn’t built directly into the walls — only the stoves and fireplace remain. The pantry doors are still tightly closed, but they are padlocked shut. I chew at my lower lip, wondering how I could pop the lock to see if there’s still anything left inside. I have enough survival skills around me that I could, if the worst comes to worst, survive on pine nuts and, less appealingly, bark; it is not an appetising thought.

My father had once shown me how to pick a lock with a hairpin, and my mind flies to the hairpins I had discarded so carelessly the night before. But there’s no point in lingering on the _what ifs_ — how would I have possibly known what I would now be faced with last night? I still run my fingers through my hair as I think, hoping that I might have accidentally missed a pin, but I find nothing. Instead I look to the hinges — I’m good with my hands, blessed with a knack at determining how some things work.

The doors are held in place by iron pins, and, upon closer inspection, I come up with a plan. If I could find some kind of leverage, then perhaps I could jimmy open one of the doors. I go to the stove, taking the cannister of oil that sits on top of it. I cross back to the pantry, hooking the fire’s poker on my index finger as I pass the stand.

I pour the oil over the pins, working it with my fingers down the sides before I jam the poker’s tip under the bottommost hinge’s pin and, making sure it won’t move too much, stamp on it. The poker flies out of place, and I can only grit my teeth and try again. It takes seven more tries before I have worked the pin up enough that I can get it out simply by leaning my weight on the end of the poker. The second pin in the other hinge is much more challenging, and it takes a near twenty minutes to unsettle the pin, twenty minutes that has reduced me to frustrated tears and shaking hands. I wrench the door away with a cry of triumph, and it is left dangling from the padlock still attached to the chain holding the handles together.

I am savagely delighted to find my efforts were not in vain. The pantry is still stocked with food, and I dive in. With Blíðýr’s strength now available to me, opportunities have opened. I begin to seriously plan what I can bring with my on my journey. I don’t bother myself with the thought of getting water — Jotunheim is so icebound the problem lies with getting enough melted snow for me to drink. Survival tips for the cold bubble through my mind as I ransack the pantry; it is almost second nature to me now, considering the environment I was pulled from when Loki came for me. Firewood was a must, and becomes my priority. I pull all of the firewood in a storage cupboard into three sackcloth bags after emptying them of their potatoes. I pack two tin cannisters of lamp oil into my main bag, securing the tops with wax from a candle I find stuffed into the corner of the pantry.

Then I move onto food.

I ignore all the perishables for now — the fresh meat lining the deep freezer, and the bread, milk, leafy vegetables, and fruits in the cold room —  and instead look for what I can bring with me that will last a long while. Weight is not something I think about as I pull out tins, cans, and jars full of dried and smoked meats, nuts, seeds, dried fruits, root vegetables, and grains. They sit on the kitchen floor, sorted into piles according to how long they’ll keep. I’ll eat everything in my perishable pile first, and then eat last what will stay for longest. I also scavenge a little tub of fat for my lips — I have learnt from bitter experience how painfully distracting cracked and bleeding lips can truly be.

I use more sackcloth bags to pack my food in, until I have eight bags around my feet with everything I’ll need, including medicinal items, a tinderbox, and an iron pot. I know there’s rope in Blíðýr’s stall, as I saw it on the wall along with his saddle tack, and so the castle holds nothing left for me. A part of me is sad to leave as I drag one bag at a time down the stairs to the cavern, but overall I’m not sorry, maybe even looking forward to hearing the heavy door slam shut for the last time — it is a haunted place for me now. I don’t look back as I pull my last bag of firewood down.

Blíðýr has returned since my last trip downstairs, and he sits by my pile of bags, licking his chops and bristling with apparent excitement. A mostly intact deer carcass lays at his feet.

“All done?” I ask, huffing as I sidestep the deer gingerly and pat Blíðýr’s side. I am sweating profusely, and I look forward to being outside if so I can more easily ignore that aspect. But first I have one more task left to do — I need to saddle Blíðýr. “Come on, boy,” I say, starting off towards his stall. He follows me without complaint, taking the deer between his teeth to gnaw on.

As soon as I start pulling the huge tack towards him, he settles down at once, waiting patiently for me to saddle him. I close my eyes as I recall how the saddle lay on his back. It was never something I paid much attention to, so the best I can hope for is a job that’ll mean I don’t fall off. I pull out a stepladder near the wall and clamber up it, the saddle’s padded underblanket in my arms. I throw it over Blíðýr’s back, and when it lands, he shakes himself; the blanket then lays flat. Then I hoist the saddle up the steps, grunting at the weight as I shove it over the blanket — I have to wonder how in the name of the Norns Brúðguminn managed this on his own time and time again. Blíðýr stands, pushes the girth under his belly, and then flops down again to bite the deer’s head off. I do my best to ignore the crunch of bone as I thread the girth through its buckle, cinching it tighter with the mechanism before it sits snuggly. There’s another strap I pass around the front of his chest, attaching it to the side of the saddle before finally attaching the girth and the strap together with a third threaded between his legs.

 _Not bad_ , I think to myself, stepping back and putting my hands on my hips. In truth, it is a messy finish. The loose ends of the straps aren’t tied off neatly as Brúðguminn does it, and one of the stirrups is caught under the girth — I hastily untangle it. But it will hold, or at least I hope it will.

“Now time to load up,” I say, pulling the bridle and bit from the wall and leading Blíðýr back to my luggage in the main cavern.

I spend the next hour securing everything to Blíðýr’s saddle, starting with the wood. He complains a little at the weight, but a firm, “No,” and a light smack to his nose is enough to settle him — I had seen people do it before with their dogs. He goes about chewing on the deer carcass as I work, tying one bag after the other as best I can to the saddle. When I’m done and stand back to admire my handy work, and I have to tell myself it’s not so bad. I hope it’ll hold, anyhow. Then I put the bit between Blíðýr’s teeth, sliding the rest of his bridle over the tusks. This part, thankfully, is easy — it’s simply two loops of tough leather that don’t pass over Blíðýr’s head and rely only on the huge tusks to hold everything in place.

I scramble ungracefully onto the foothold Blíðýr’s elbow makes, hooking my other foot into the stirrup before swinging myself over the saddle. I do my coat up as Blíðýr lurches to his feet, and I tuck my own feet as best I can into the stirrups. I almost wrap the reins around my hands, before I remember my father telling me that doing so could result in bruised or broken bones if I were unable to free myself in the event of a fall. I suddenly wish for rope to tie myself down with. Too late now.

I pull Blíðýr around to the entrance, taking a deep breath and crouching low over the saddle, my chest directly above the pommel. “Ha!” I shout, snapping the reins.

I hadn’t truly realised how much skill Loki must have had to not only ride Blíðýr, but to be able to hold me down at the same time. I almost become unseated when Blíðýr springs forward, grunting as he bounds along the cavern’s length and into the weak light of the rising sun. I pull on the left rein, barely managing to hold on as Blíðýr angles himself towards the Northern Road. Loki holding me down meant that Blíðýr’s strides hadn’t jarred me, but now I bear the full brunt of them. My teeth clack together and my tailbone slams into the saddle with each stride, and I try my best to press myself into the saddle to minimise the movement. Soon, my eyes are stinging, wet with unshed tears, and the wind roars in my ears. Even through my gloves, my fingers are numb, my ears dreadfully sore even under the hood of my coat and the parka I have pulled over my face. I try to push the fact from my mind that Jotunheim will only be colder.

Loki had said the Troll Wall was the gateway to Jotunheim, and from the castle, it lay about a day’s walk away on foot. With Blíðýr, it’ll take not even half an hour at most — he flies like the wind. As we draw closer, I shift my attention to the wall itself. I had known it was big, but it soon become apparent how much it dwarfs us the closer we draw. It must be at least a half kilometre high, something I would hate to climb. I swallow, and busy myself looking for a pathway. After all, the road must lead to one.

It is therefore a horrible surprise to see the road runs right into a dead end at the wall’s foot. I tug on Blíðýr’s reins, and he comes to a skidding halt, snow flying onto the wall of sheer rock. I stare at the wall, and he lowers his head to it, sniffing it cautiously. I twist myself in the saddle, looking for a way over. I cannot see anything.

 _Left_ , I think desperately. I yank Blíðýr around, kicking him forward into a light run as I search the wall for any kind of road. Blíðýr’s progress in slowed somewhat by the stray trees and branches hugging the foot of the wall, but he simply muscles his way through, leaving a splintered mess of debris behind him. A high branch whips me across the shoulder, and the sting hurts even through all my layers.

 _It can_ _’t be._ I turn Blíðýr around, shouting, “Ha!” once more as Blíðýr takes off back to the main road. _There has to be a way up_ , I tell myself furiously. _There has to be_ _…._

When we make it back to the main road, Blíðýr comes to a sudden halt. I, who had been concentrating on the wall in search of any sort of passage or opening, am flung into Blíðýr’s neck. I bite my tongue and cry out in pain. “Blíðýr!” I shout, hurt. “Why did you —?”

The reason why he stopped becomes apparent in a heartbeat.

We are no longer alone on the road. In the middle of it, with her hand pressed against the rock face, is an incredibly old woman. Her face is like crumpled parchment, wrinkled and lined beyond belief. Her eyes are deep set, her heavy clothing hiding her frame, but her bare hand does not shake as I would have expected. Its movements are like a well-oiled machine as she slides it over the stone, her skin barely touching it. Her long, snow white hair flies in the wind like a flag.

I stare. There simply aren’t any people here. Loki, the castle’s staff, and myself were the only people living around here for miles. So where has this woman come from? How did we not see her when we came up the Northern Road before? I am not that unobservant. “H-hello?” I call down.

She doesn’t look up, still moving her hand in front of the stone for another half minute. I open my mouth to try again, but then she turns suddenly and begins to walk away without any kind of walking stick — she must be far stronger and fitter than first impressions allowed. “Wait!” I call after her. She stops, turning as I yank on Blíðýr’s reins. Lip trembling, I take a wild stab in the dark as I ask, “Do you know where I can climb the Troll Wall?”

She finally turns to look at me and gives a gap-toothed smile. “The girl who sought the jotnar that passed? Perhaps the half-breed who lived in the castle?”

My attention is caught so fast it is like a wire snapped under duress. “Do you know him?” I say sharply.

The old woman hums in confirmation.

“Who took him?” I ask. “Where’s he gone? Can you tell me? Please, can you tell me?!”

“I am everything that has been. I cannot answer your question,” the old woman says. “Follow from where the north wind blows. Seek my sisters, and your questions shall be answered.”

It is a stupidly unnecessary cryptic answer, but it is something.

“Where do I climb the Wall?” I try.

“I am everything that has been. I cannot answer your question,” the woman repeats.

“Just tell me. Please!”

“Those who have asked the right questions have been given the answers they sought.”

Everything that has passed. I sigh and say with mounting frustration, “Where did the jotnar climb the Troll Wall?”

“They followed the road back,” the woman says, pointing with a finger. “They turned on the side and went to the glen. They passed through there.”

“Thank you,” I say stiffly, before I kick Blíðýr in the sides. He shoots forward, bounding back along the path. I scan the treeline on either side, eyes darting from left to right and right to left as I look for an off-shooting track.

It is Blíðýr who finds it, and I’m jerked wildly in the saddle as he veers a sudden left, the stirrups the only things saving me from a nasty fall. I take a lungful of air before we plunge into the trees. The path was one that was so throughly concealed I hadn’t taken any notice of the gap between the trees before, but the first thing I notice now is how the pines have been stripped of their bark and branches. Their bareness stretches far above Blíðýr’s head and mine, and I dread to imagine what kind of creature could have been big enough to take off branches and bark twenty feet into the air. It is a narrow path, one that offers only the track of destroyed trees as a guide. For minutes Blíðýr follows the destruction, sniffing madly at the air and loping along at a comfortable rate. Soon, the trees jerk sharply left, and we head back towards the Troll Wall from the previously perpendicular line. And then, we come upon a glen.

The clearing of the trees funnels into a cone-like shape towards a single deep crack in the Troll Wall. Blíðýr and I are as frozen to our places as the other is. I can feel Blíðýr trembling beneath me, and I force myself to lean forward, stroking a reassuring hand along the base of his skull and whispering, “Hey, it’s alright. It’s fine.”

Stories of the Troll Wall come back now. Loki had said that storm and mountain giants are known to haunt the place, and I desperately hope that we encounter none of them. My grip on the reins tighten, and I whisper to Blíðýr, “Come on, boy. Come on. You can do it. Go.”

Blíðýr takes a hesitant step forward before taking two back, whimpering loudly and chewing at the bit in a way I can only read as utter distress.

“Come on, Blíðýr. Please. We need to find Loki. We need to. Please, Blíðýr, please go.”

One more step forward, and then another, before we are creeping towards the Wall in a strange sideways crawl.

“Good boy,” I say in encouragement. “Well done, you’re do so _well_ —”

Blíðýr whines, a high noise I have never heard him make before, before he straightens his gait a little and trots cautiously to the gap. The trees press in from both sides around us, and I am praying that Blíðýr’s nerve does not give again. I whisper encouragements to him the entire way, scratching the pebbly hide with my nails as he draws closer. Inside the crack, I can see the deep, winding path that leads back and up into the Wall. I can also see those same scrape marks on either side of the crack.

“Well done,” I murmur as Blíðýr puts a foot across the threshold. “Good boy, _good boy_.”

Blíðýr snuffles before he speeds up, fleeing as fast as he can through the crack and onto the path. I notice almost immediately how quietly his steps fall. The distinct lack of his claws against the stone is eerie, and as a result, there is a slight different in his run. It is bumpier, and it is like sitting atop the sea in a high storm. My stomach is soon protesting, and I feel at first faintly nauseous, and then sick to my stomach. I groan, wrapping my hands around the pommel and looking up at the thin slit of sky above us. I have to grip Blíðýr as tightly as I can with my knees, but despite my best efforts, it doesn’t take long before I am heaving over Blíðýr’s side as quietly as I can. I still don’t like how my sick, the remnants of the last of Kokkurinn’s beautiful turkey and vegetable roast, splatters loudly against the rock. To me, it seems to echo in the ravine.

Blíðýr continues to climb for a near two hours. He stops occasionally to rest, panting heavily from the uphill climb. I would usually take the time to eat, but food is the last thing I want now. Instead, I look through my pack. I plunge my hand in, looking for _The Language of Flowers_ , but the first ting my fingers encounter is the hard wax of the candle. I pull it out, looking at for half a second before I throw it away from me as hard as I can, screaming at it. It breaks against the opposite wall, raining down onto rocks far below. My voice echoes along the cavern, and I only notice then that Blíðýr is standing to attention. He is completely still, and not even his nose twitches. I get to my feet, dragging my pack behind me and tying it back to the saddle.

“Blíðýr?” I whisper tentatively.

A bellowing roar answers me from deep within the rocks.

Blíðýr yowls with fright, and I barely manage to get up onto his back before he’s off.

 _Thud_.

Blíðýr is still desperately trying to be quiet, still running in his weirdly looping way as he sprints as fast as he can up the path, panting for breath as he rounds the corners of the path as fast as he can. And all the while, I am all too aware of the noise behind us: _thud_ _… thud … thud, thud, thud thud thudthudTHUD_ —

I scream in fear as a boulder cracks into the path directly behind Blíðýr’s ankles. The road falls away into nothing, and I whip my head around to see a huge mountain giantess beneath us. She is at least twenty-foot tall, and is already gouging another rock from the wall where she stands.

“Go!” I yell in fright, thwacking the reins against Blíðýr’s back — more so in the effort to do something than to hurry Blíðýr up. I doubt he notices my actions anyhow. His necks is extended towards the sky that draws closer and closer every second.

“ _Asgardian!_ ” I hear the jotun bellow at me. “Murderer, murderer!”

“Run, Blíðýr!” I beg.

The sky, a lilac I would have found beautiful in other circumstances, grows closer and closer every second. Another boulder crashes near us, this time a few metres in front  of Blíðýr, and he jumps.

He screeches loudly as he slips on the edge of the path, and his whole back end jerks down as one of his feet misses the ledge. For a split second, I am convinced we are about to die, but then Blíðýr pulls himself up with a grunt and bursts into freedom. Snow and ice whips against us when we come up from the gorge, but Blíðýr doesn’t stop. He keeps running, a prominent limp in his step now as he bounds away from the Troll Wall as best he can. I cling to his back, shaking like a leaf and thinking, _Stupid, stupid,_ stupid _Sigyn!_ My breathing is ragged, laboured in the extreme, and my heart feels as if it will soon bruise my ribs for how hard it beats.

Blíðýr runs and runs, and I lose track of time, my head lolling to the side as the rugged white landscape of Jotunheim flies past. I cannot take it in; all I register about it is the utter lack of colour and the cold that creeps into my bones.

I am brought to when Blíðýr begins to slow long after the sun has vanished and shrouded the landscape in the colours of night. Great waves of ice box us into a valley formed by wind and snow, rising far above our heads in a curving barrel. Blíðýr flops down onto his side, and I wince when my leg is trapped under him.

“Blíðýr,” I grunt, slapping him as hard as I can with my palms, “up, you. I need to get up!” When he doesn’t move, I sigh and throw my head back against the snow, biting at my lip and looking at him flatly. “Come on, don’t you want the saddle off, Blíðýr?”

He makes a noise low in his throat before he rolls slowly upright, rising to his feet and trembling his entire length. His back right leg he holds slightly off the ground. The muscle is torn, skin shredded and hanging from him. Black blood, the same colour as Loki’s, drips onto the snow. I look at it for only a second before I tug the saddle off. After a few second, it falls with a _thwump_ onto the snow. Blíðýr immediately falls back onto his side, burying his head in the snow and slapping his tail against one of the ice waves. It trembles above us.

“Good boy,” I whisper before I get to work.

I clear away a small patch of snow from the rock to make the camp on — something that takes a surprisingly long time and leaves only a five foot wide area as I result, barely enough for me to squeeze myself and a fire into. But the truth is it’s the best I can do. I then go about making a fire, for I need to get through the meat before it goes bad. Freezing to death won’t do me any favours either, and I need to boil the bandages to treat Blíðýr’s wound. I make stew, leaving it to cook in the pot as I treat Blíðýr’s leg with the first round of clean bandages. He barely notices me as I wipe away the blood, fast asleep even when I rub disinfectant into the wound; I can only hope it’ll work for him as it works for the Æsir. I don’t even try to hope that I can stitch the wound shut — Blíðýr’s hide is simply too thick to pass the needle through. After I’ve done all I can, I sit down to my dinner, sipping the stew from the bowl as I clean the pot with snow. I shuffle towards the fire when the temperature drops rapidly, hunched over and warming my fingers near it, crooked and shaking with the cold as the bandages are boiled in the melted snow.

I dry them when they’re clean enough, wringing the water out as best I can before stuffing them deep into the cotton supply bag in the hope the water I couldn’t get out doesn’t freeze. After I shove the bag as deep as I can in the sackcloth bag, I slump down by the fire, pulling my cloak over me as I try to go to sleep.

I am almost there when Blíðýr wraps one of his huge paws around me, bringing me close to his chest to share his body warmth. “Thank you,” I murmur, hugging him tightly. “Thank you.”

* * *

Blíðýr is fast asleep when I stir towards the dawn. It is quiet, the only sound is the whisper of wind through the ice. But it doesn’t last long. I hear a crunch of snow, but I don’t think much of it — it could have been Blíðýr shifting his tail. But it is when the crunches become the obvious pattern of footsteps do I panic. What if the rock jotun followed us? Norns, my journey would be at an end when I’ve barely started.

I sit up, scrabbling for any kind of item I could potentially use as a weapon before I catch sight of the footsteps’ owner: a woman. She picks at the ice wave closest to us, and I wriggle my way free of Blíðýr’s paw, which he eventually loosens sleepily. I pad towards the woman, wary. She is dressed in fine clothes, clothes befitting a high woman of the courts, with a neatly trimmed fur collar of snow cat fur. A golden necklace laden with precious stones flashes at her throat, her hair held back from her face by a matching pin. But the most obvious thing about her is that she is heavily pregnant, and her belly is due to drop any day. I stop, blinking rapidly. The same question that had come to me when I had seen the old woman the day before springs to mind: where did she come from? The journey Blíðýr and I have undertaken was not one easily travelled by a woman as heavy with child as she is.

“My lady?” I ask, ducking my head in a reflexive show of respect, “forgive me when I ask, but what are you doing here? Jotunheim is not a safe place.”

“It is hardly a safe place for any apart from the giants themselves,” the woman says, “but yet you are here. I shall ask the same question as you, child: why are you here?”

I fidget, picking at my fingernails. “To … to repay a debt. To uphold one. To fix a terrible wrong I have committed.”

The woman contemplates me for a second before she shakes her head the slightest amount. “You are here for more than that,” she says softly.

I flinch back, resisting the urge to slap my hands over my ears in denial of the words. “I am here for duty,” I say, unable to keep out any kind of desperation from my voice. “I have answered you question so answer mine: why are _you_ here?”

“I am here to help,” she says.

I pause, staring at her in astonishment.

She steps across the snow, one hand to her belly, the other by her side. She does not blink, and it is incredibly disconcerting. I have to look away.

“You seek the prince,” she says.

“Do you know him?” I ask at once. “Where is he?”

“I cannot answer that,” the woman says, “for he is in one place now, and now he is in another. You will not be able to find him now.”

“How do you know?” I whisper a little hotly, defensive words jumping to my throat. I have prepared as much as I possibly could; what else more could I have done? “What gives you the … the _right_ to decide whether or not I will succeed?”

“It is not what you think, child,” the woman says, her voice soothingly calm. “I am everything that is. I cannot answer your question.”

The echo of the old woman’s words chills me. But I know this game now. I swallow, shoving my anger away. “Which direction has he gone?”

“North,” the woman says. “Follow where the north wind is blowing, and you shall find him.” She retreats behind one of the waves of ice, and I go after her, intent on asking her more questions — any of the hundreds that have burst into my head including the simplistic _Who are you?_ that plagues me, but, when I round the ice, she is nowhere to be seen. There are no footprints in the snow either, even where she had been standing as I talked to her. I blink rapidly, swallowing and just wondering where’s she’s gone and, even, if I am simply mad. But I can’t be, I tell myself; Blíðýr was the one who skidded to a halt before the old woman yesterday.

Blíðýr….

I go back to him, rousing him gently from sleep as I look to his leg. The wound has scabbed over, but it doesn’t look much better than that. The flesh around it is a dark, bruise-like colour, and there is dried blood on his skin that seeped out during the night. I clean the blood away with a fresh handful of snow before rummaging in the cotton bag for the disinfectant. I pray that the discolouration is not an inflammation.

“Up, Blíðýr,” I say. “Up.”

I bury the remnants of the fire with snow before I pack everything else up and haul on Blíðýr’s saddle. When I mount Blíðýr, my hands are stiff. I’m not looking forward to the ride, as the only protection I can offer myself for my face is my parka. It was iced yesterday by my breath, and it does little in the way of protecting my eyes. It left my chin numb with cold, my mouth full of wool fluff, and the skin around my eyes has started to peel. I apply fat from my little tin to my lips before I shake the reins.

Jotunheim is far from the place that the castle was. The lands around the castle were full of soft, bright snows, greenery, and was sheltered by the Troll Wall. Jotunheim is made of flat, icy plains, jagged peaks, and shrieking winds. There is only the cold, and the sound of my heart is all I can clearly hear. The only thing that I know of my continued existence is through my utter misery. The day started out pleasant enough, but the weather turned not thirty minutes after we set off. I spend most of the day hunkered against Blíðýr’s back, hood drawn low over my face and hands, still holding the reins, tucked firmly into my armpits. Blíðýr soldiered on, not as bothered with the cold as I was, and when the day ends, his tusks hold icicles on them as long as my forearm, and snow and ice crust his face and legs. He finds a cave which is warm enough that we can sleep separately tonight — he presumably being more comfortable without holding onto me, and I by the fire. He laps at the icicles as I slide off, and I hope it’s a sign that his wound isn’t so bad; he ran better today. But the movement has opened the scabs, and frozen blood coats his leg.

Again, I scrub the blood away with a handful of snow, going outside and digging up a pot-full of it to melt. When the fire is going, I sit, drinking my water and munching on a handful of nuts. I only have Blíðýr and my troubled thoughts for company, and it’ll be a while before I can force myself to sleep — the wind screeches outside, and guilt gnaws at my gut like a dog gnaws a bone. I seek distraction by going to my pack, opening it and this time succeeding in pulling out _The Language of Flowers_. Mother’s handbinding cloth is draped over the book’s spine, and I put it back into the bag, tracing my finger’s along the embossed runes on the leather bookbinding.

“ _Thuris_ ,” I whisper under my breath, running the pads of my fingers along the thorn rune. “Thor’s rune, male fertility, prowess in battle. _Ehwaz_ , rune of horses and of movement.”

There’s a flower stem poking out of the bottom of the pages, and I open the book, tucking the gardenia back into place, before my eye catches a single word: _love_.

I yank the book open sharply, wincing a little at the rough treatment, before I place my finger at the beginning of the line and sounding the words out carefully.

_Gardenia: loveliness; secret love._

The meaning of the flower. But of course, this book is the entirety of the dictionary of flowers, of their meanings. Could Loki have possibly been communicating with me through the flowers he left on my pillow? I am desperate enough for him to investigate. I open the book to the next flower I find and start from there.

_Carnation, White: sweetness; innocence._

_Primrose: the giver cannot live without the receiver._

_Acacia: concealed love; chaste love._

_Hyacinth, Purple: symbol of sorrow; the seeking of forgiveness._

_This_ , I remember, _was when I jerked away. Oh, Loki_ _…._

The flowers I suddenly handle with a much greater care, sometimes putting them to my nose in the hope of getting a whiff of a lingering scent, even if I know such a thing impossible. My eyes are wet as I continue riffling through the pages, conjuring an image of the tapestry that hung in the atrium to my rooms in my mind and searching for those flowers, too.

_Camellia, Pink: the giver shall never forget the receiver._

_Lily-of-the-Valley: sweetness; fulfilment._

_Petunia: resentment; a soothing presence._

_Zinna, Scarlet: constancy._

_Jonquil: affection returned; desire for the recipient to love back the giver; sympathy._

That was left the day I left for my family’s farm. _Idiot_ , I think. _Loki, what are you doing?_

And finally, I come to _Raedo_ : the section that contains information on roses. I find the pages detailing roses.

 _The rose has long been used as a symbol in societies across the realms in which it grows_ , the book reads in its opening description. _A flower originally native to Vanaheim, roses were spread by travellers across many other realms. Their origin has since given roses their long remaining history as a symbol of love. Roses of different colours and stages in their life cycles each herald unique meanings._

I look down the neat little column printed in a careful hand.

_Rose, All (Bouquet): gratitude._

Gratitude … Gratitude that I came back to the castle?

_“I thought you wouldn’t come back.”_

I bite my lip at the memory.

But it is the final entry at the bottom of the red roses column that draws my attention, and the pressed rose nestled within the book’s joint:

 _Rose, Red (Thornless): love at first sight_.

My hand jumps to my mouth, my eyes wide. “Idiot,” I whisper hotly. “Loki, you stupid _idiot_.” The _perfect_ stupid idiot. I bury my face into the book, Loki’s absence eating at my heart more than ever. Blíðýr huffs behind me, hitting the ground with his tail. I wipe my nose on the back of my hand and look at him. He makes a low rumbling deep in his throat and I touch one of his tusks, tracing the cracks in the skin. My heart aches, and a tiny whimper bursts from my throat.

“I can’t do this,” I say suddenly. “Blíðýr, I can’t do it….” I feel like I did yesterday, wishing that I could just kick something, tear my nails into my skin because _I_ _’m sorry_ wont suffice. After everything Loki has done for me, I cannot do much else for him. I would only ruin it again, like I have ruined this now.

Blíðýr licks at my back, nudging at me gently before he tucks my body under his chin, humming deep in his throat like Loki had done to comfort me. I still under the rumble, pressing myself into the hollow of the joint of Blíðýr’s neck and head. He smells awful, but there’s no doubt that I too smell just as bad — like sweat and girl and animal stink. How am I possibly good enough for Loki in the face of what’s happened to him? I’m just another mistake in his life, and I don’t need to make anything else worse than it always is.

 _Sigyn_ , I hear, a whisper in the wind I’m sure is just some grain of my subconscious still intent on wrecking something, born of my destructive mood. _Try. You will try. Loki will suffer without you._

“Lies,” I hiss through my teeth. “He’s better off without me.”

Blíðýr rumbles deep in his chest, and closes his paw around me once again so I cannot move. It is obvious to me by now Blíðýr is not dull creature. I stare at the underside of his jaw, my own slack. “Should I go on?”

A whuff. Of agreement?

“Should I turn back?”

A deep growl, and a discontented shuffling.

“Let me go, Blíðýr,” I say quietly. “I want to be by the fire.”

Blíðýr does let me go, but as soon as I sit in front of the flames, Blíðýr snakes his body across the entrance to the cavern, sealing us in.

“Don’t be stupid, Blíðýr,” I say. “Get back here, it’s freezing.”

Blíðýr only closes his eyes, a rumble of a snore awakening in his chest. I huff, annoyed. Fine, if he won’t move, that’s his own fault.

I use _The Language of Flowers_ as a pillow, my tears sliding into my hair as I aim to repress my shudders.

* * *

Three days later, and it feels like Blíðýr and I have progressed nowhere. The landscape looks the same no matter how far north we travel, following the lone North Star my father pointed out to me as a child. The weather hinders our progress, slowing us down immensely and stealing what little daylight hours we’re gifted. We hide in the cracks and crevasses of the rock formations we find, me huddling into Blíðýr’s side as he stands guard like a statue, the wind at his back and hugging me close. His wound too slows us down, for the discolouration has indeed become an infection. I cannot stop it bleeding no matter how much I try. The flesh too is puffy and swollen, leaking pus and clear fluid. Blíðýr’s previously long strides turn into painful lopes, and then into limps. We leave a trail of blood behind us wherever we go.

A week by my counting passes, and my hope begins to falter, my will beginning to crack.

But I am naïve enough to think that the worst has past us. I couldn’t have been more wrong. The last day of peace that passes is a painful one. Blíðýr runs as best he can, and even when I coax him to stop, he does not listen to me. He survives only on adrenaline now, relying on it to block out the pain when none of my herbs could. He hasn’t eaten properly for the past four days either, for he has grown so lame he was unable to hunt. He ate the last of my meat and fish, leaving me with vegetables, dairy, and nuts.

“It’ll be alright,” I whispered to him before we went to sleep stuffed into a shallow crack of stone. “It’ll be fine.”

A deafening shriek awakes me. I jerk, sitting upright and screaming with fear when I see Blíðýr and some kind of huge, dragon-like beast with a head shaped like a hammer battling behind me. I scramble away, pulling my furs with me as the attacking creature slams its paw into Blíðýr’s face. Blíðýr roars in pain, turning in a quick circle before smacking his tail into the creature’s ribs, the spikes upon it ripping open flesh. The creature screeches in agony, blood flying onto the ice. It retreats a little, hissing and snarling and pacing in a circle. Blíðýr paces opposite it, limping badly and what’s left of his lip curling to expose his teeth.

“Blíðýr!” I call, heedless to my own safety, but the creature doesn’t look at me, its entire attention fixed upon Blíðýr. “ _Bl_ _íðýr!_ ”

The two of them leap at the same time, going for the other’s throat. I can only watch with bated breath and pounding heart.

The creature hits Blíðýr’s tusks away with its head, and I choke when it sinks its great teeth into Blíðýr’s jugular. Blíðýr’s screeching wail is a wet one, and the creature lands, shaking its head furiously. I see the moment when Blíðýr dies, for his tail jerks one last time, his legs go limp, and his head sags. The creature drops Blíðýr with a resounding _thud_ , panting heavily, before lifting its head and bellowing its victory.

I am frozen with shock and horror, unable to watch as the creature brings its back legs up to Blíðýr’s stomach and rips them down, slitting open his belly. I cannot watch this. Throwing caution to the wind, I pick up my pack, scramble in the snow for the nearest of my bags and pull out an armful of food, before I flee, fighting my way through the snow until I find solid ground. I climb onto it and run. I run and run and run until I feel like can’t run any further, but the image of Blíðýr’s broken body spurs me on. Eventually I stop when my toe snags on a loose rock and I fall, tumbling down a steep incline and crying out in pain. I roll over and over, bumping and scraping my face against chunks of ice until I slide to a halt, caught by a frozen drift.

I don’t get up at once, heaving in great gasps of air and crying into my sleeve; I cannot get the picture of Blíðýr out of my mind. This is my fault. Blíðýr’s death is my fault. How can I go on with yet another’s fate now tacked to me? First Loki’s, and now Blíðýr’s.

I mostly feel like screaming _why_. Why has this happened? Why couldn’t I just ignore my mother? Ignore my stupid, bloody, Norns-be-damned curiosity and just lay on my bed and slept? And why has this happened to me? Why me? What makes me so special? It’s too hard, too difficult. And then I simply cry myself numb.

* * *

But I have come too far to give up.

It took me hours to lift myself from the drift, and another hour to get myself out of it. The snow underneath was too soft, and as soon as I would stand, I’d fall over again, and it took me minutes at a time to even consider trying again. My face is red with windburn, my throat searing with cold, my lips cracked and broken and bleeding. And yet I force myself to go on, to put one foot in front of the other and strike north.

It is by far the hardest thing I’ve ever done, including that time at home I jumped off the highest barn roof in a two-hundred kilometre radius into a haystack.

There are times where I don’t remember anything, stirring from the sluggish depths of my mind to find a once distant monolith of rock is now several hundred metres behind me. I shift my pack on my shoulders regularly, sometimes dragging it behind me and sometimes even leaving it in the snow before I go back for it and hoist it up. Jotunheim has robbed me of everything — my will, my want, Blíðýr, and Loki.

The wind howls in my ears as I struggle on through yet another sudden snowstorm. There’s a lot of those, I think. I can’t remember any more. I can’t remember much beyond the pounding _one, two, one, two_ I force myself to recite to keep walking. There’s snow in my eyelashes, and they freeze together every time I blink. My lips feel like dry mud, a web of cracked skin I would chew between my teeth if I had the energy to. I barely notice my steps becoming shuffles, and then my shuffles becoming the heavy dragging of my feet. I cannot feel anything, and yet everything hurts so much. I can barely think. I can barely remember why I’m here. Can barely remember even my own name.

I have heard that drowning is a peaceful process; freezing to death is as well, apparently. My body grows numb, and it becomes a monumental effort to put one foot in front of the other. A sense of euphoria starts to rise within me, and I am grinning like some drunken idiot. This situation is funny all of a sudden; I would have never thought I’d die in Jotunheim’s wastes, frozen to death and never found.

And I am drowning.

I am drowning.

Drowning….

And then, finally, I fall.

This time, I do not get back up, and why would I want to? The snow is like a pillow, now soft and inviting; the cold of it does not concern me now. I am too lethargic, too beyond caring to notice it, too beyond hoping that I will succeed in the impossible task of finding Loki again, or even that I will have the chance to leave Jotunheim.

I wish for death.

Then, there is a whisper in the snow, the softest of laughs. It cannot be from me, for I am too cold to even twitch.

Suddenly, the world is still. The wind stops blowing, leaving nothing but snowflakes suspended in the air like a hologram paused. The air, I think, is no longer as cold, and it is quiet. So quiet.

I hear another giggle, and I force myself to lift my head. When I see someone shifting in the snow, I do not think much of it. After all, wasn’t it said that one sees their family before they die? I imagine that it must be one of them, here to comfort me in my time of dying. But when the figure draws closer, it soon becomes apparent that it is someone whom I have never seen, much less someone I know. My heart thumps loudly.

The girl is dressed in the lightest of clothes — great lengths of dark blue silk that flow like water around her thin frame. But they are ripped, tattered and covered in mud, and her long, dark hair is snagged with brittle twigs and small bones. Upon her head, shadowing her haughty looking face, is a fox’s skull, the canine teeth resting in her hairline. Her feet are bare, silver anklets chiming in the wind.

I am hallucinating — it is the only explanation.

“Sigyn,” she says. Her voice is musical, impossibly beautiful, and yet terrible and weighted. It is a thousand voices laid into one, blended together to become a harmonic unit. It is that which stirs me enough that I force myself to focus my blurred vision on her. It is then I realise that she is older than I originally thought she was, closer to fifteen or sixteen, but her body is made of the straight lines of prepubescence. Her skin is dark with smeared earth, her brutally short nails black with dirt, her pointed teeth yellow with plaque. But it is her eyes that I see. Her eyes are a burning violet, the colour brought out even more by the dark stripe of black paint across them. She is unearthly. She is beautiful.

I open my mouth, and the only thing I can think to say is, “Help me.” My voice is nothing but a hiss of air over cracked lips; I can barely hear myself. I take a breath and try again: “ _Help me_.”

“Shh.” The girl pads towards me, crouching low and placing her finger near my lips. “You must conserve your strength. You must find Loki.”

“Lo … ki?” I force out. “But … what’s … the p-point … in that?” I am dying, and will it not be best if he never sees me again? After all, everything that has happened to us since that night is my fault, even my own death. I do not want either of us to suffer more than we already have.

The girl giggles, straightening up to tower over me. “You’re meant,” she says. “In all worlds of existence, your threads will be tangled. There is no Loki without his Sigyn, and there is no Sigyn without her Loki.”

But that is all very well if I had him. That thought is so prevalent that the true depth of her words don’t register. “I will die,” I breathe. “I will … will not _make it_ ….”

She shakes her head. “You will not die, Sigyn. Not long to go now,” she says. “They are in the castle at Utgard. There, you shall find your lover.”

“My lover?” I whisper. “But he …”

The girl’s smile widens again. “There is no Loki without his Sigyn, and there is no Sigyn without her Loki,” she repeats. “Always you shall be together; it is fate.”

Images burst into my mind’s eye:

Loki, pale and beautiful, with golden horns upon his brow standing beside a throne. Loki, plated in the finest of armour as a city of glass and chrome burns beneath him, holding his hands to the destruction as he breathes in dust and rubble and ruin. Loki, red-haired and flickering with fire as he dances bare-footed in the dirt, laughing and crackling with violet magic. Loki, jotun and swathed with ice as he sings to the night, giants heeding his call to the stars. Loki, clothed with peacock feathers and gold as he stands beside a queen of sun’s throne, his air regal and demanding respect. Loki, covered in woad tattoos and holding a bow as he stands amongst an army of bare chested warriors, facing down soldiers covered in plated metal. Loki, heading a battalion against grey-skinned creatures and their ages old master. Loki, bound to a rock with blood and flesh, screaming as his eyes burn —

And always, I am with him. I too am dressed in finery. I too revel in firelight and fall into his arms. I too am next to Loki, seated in a throne of brightest gold as fireflies dance between us in the dusk. I too crouch and hold a bowl steaming with poison above his head, tears falling down my cheeks, and tiny bones littering the ground by my feet.

We look different in each iteration, but I know they are us as surely as I know my own name.

When I come back to myself, I am weeping upon the snow, limp as a rag doll.

The girl merely looks at me with eyes older than her years. “It is fate,” she says again. “Always you will find each other, and always you will love.”

“Who are you?” I whisper. I am hoarse, ragged with emotion. “Please.”

“I am everything that will be,” she says. She tips her head towards the horizon. “He will be waiting for you.”

I look up, and I see a smudge of something through the darkness. I blink sharply, finally raising myself on shaking arms. It takes some time for me to stumble to my frozen feet, shielding my eyes from the sky’s north lights. Yes … that smudge is something, something that is solidifying into walls and towers and _civilisation_. I stare, utterly astounded as I sway on my feet, hungrily drinking in the sight of the place.

I suck in a sharp breath, and then, with a tremendous amount of effort, nudge my right foot through the snow, and then my left, and my right once again. I will not die. I will not have come all this way for nothing. I will not let Blíðýr’s death be in vain, and neither let my despair nor guilt nor the apology I owe to Loki be snuffed out so quickly.

 _Move!_ I scream at myself. I hug my cloak tighter around me. My breath is ragged and loud in my ears, the air burning in my lungs, and every inch of me screaming in protest. My will is a strong current within me, and it is not a current that will abate until I have done everything in my power to fix my mistakes.

_Go._

I do not need to look back to know the girl has vanished; it leaves me relieved if I have to be honest with myself, for there is one less person for me to worry about.

_Go._

My feet find a flat piece of ice, snow and sleet pounded into place by tramping boots over millennia.

_GO —_

I hunch my shoulders in the poor effort to hide my face in the white fur of the cloak’s collar as I advance up the road, stumbling and tripping and falling until my hands are scraped raw. There are knives in my chest, glass in my lungs, fire in my side. But I refuse to bend. I refuse.

I almost walk into the doors.

I barely manage to stop myself in time, head low and peering through my lashes at the dark, icy stone a bare inch from my nose. I lick my lips, flicking my eyes along the expanses of wall stretching in both directions from where I stand. Then I turn my eyes back, and the door becomes my vision, my everything. It is through sheer instinct I raise my frozen fist to knock, but before I can pound at it with whatever meagre strength is left to me, I stop, swaying on the spot. Fear grips me. I am suddenly torn in indecision.

There are frost giants here. Real frost giants. My nightmares lay beyond. But who is to say I have not already faced them?

Long I stand there, wondering, fearing, dying…. But necessity drives me. I knock upon the door, and the sound reverberates in the frigid space, like doom heavy upon a drum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The meanings of the flowers were taken from [this website](http://thelanguageofflowers.com/).
> 
> [Come join me over on Tumblr!](http://englishbutter.tumblr.com/)


	8. The Bargain

_It only takes two days before I’m climbing the walls of my cell. It is my second visit to this particular room, and the parallels to my first stay bring memories enough to constrict my chest; I find myself gasping for air much of the time. My fingers bleed for how often I have tried to pry open the door, stones from the wall, at anything that could offer me means of escape. But my efforts have proved just as futile as when I tried to break free from here ten, now almost eleven years ago. I’ve been achingly aware of my surroundings too — jumping every time the guard changes outside the door, my stomach begging to be filled, my only drink the blood I lap from my mangled fingers so I may pretend that I am clean, and the heaviness of my eyes and yet being unable to fall asleep for the images it brings. I have chewed my nails to their beds not knowing what else to do, flinching and snuffling like a whipped dog whenever something shifts. I cannot make myself relax my guard._

_The imprisonment, and the future that lies beyond my now physical cage, brings back too the creeping thoughts of taking my own life, thoughts I had hoped to have pushed aside years ago. Hopelessness eats at me like wood rot, made all the worse by the bindrune through which I still catch glimpses of the Queen’s mind. If I were to commit suicide, it would be by physically clawing her out of my head._

_My head snaps around when the door suddenly opens, and I launch myself at the visitor, intent on rendering some kind of harm, but shields block me from those coming in. They shove me back, and I stumble against the far wall, bones grinding as I hit it._

_“And here he is,” a voice says. “The little wolf.”_

_My stomach clenches at the voice, a deep and smooth one that I dread might’ve belonged to me if Laufey-Queen had had her way at the conclusion of the war. It is the voice of one of her other offspring. “Wolves are notorious for tearing throats out,” I say, fixing my eyes on my half-brother. “Perhaps it’ll be yours I next clamp my teeth around.”_

_“I doubt it,” the frost giant says. “Take him to the courtyard.” He must see the_ why _in my eyes, for he says a heartbeat later, “Aren’t you hungry, little wolf?”_

* * *

_Boom._

I am startled out of my numb state of mind by the sound of the drum. I let out a frightened breath once I have unstuck my lips.

_Boom._

The next beat was closer than the previous one, and I frown, shuffling back as best as I can on my frozen, numb feet.

A horn blares in the distance, and I barely have the strength to look behind me. I can feel a vibration through the ground, and it rides my up legs and into my chest. The horn sounds again, and there is a shout from atop the gate.

_BOOM._

They are not drumbeats — they are steps. Dark shapes move on the road, and I shrink back against the gateway, barely managing to keep myself upright. It is only as they draw closer, emerging from the hazy environment, do I see that they are _ísverur_. And they are nothing of Blíðýr’s size. They are immense, three times as big as he was. I feela twist in my gut; it is only then do I fully appreciate, and mourn, his youth. A pup indeed. These _ísverur_ could be easily ten times my height, with sweeping tusks, backs bristling with spines as tall as I am. They lumber along, hard muscle rippling in their shoulders as they draw close to the gate. There are four of them, dragging something even bigger than they are behind them. A different creature, I find. Not one of the ones that attacked Blíðýr — which I am disappointed about, for if it had been one of them, then maybe it would have been the creature who took Blíðýr’s life — but something that reminds me of a sea creature — a killer whale, I think, but one that is far, far bigger than the pictures I have seen of them before.

Ancient hinges groan as the gate opens, and I back away before I have the chance to see what is on the other side, too focused on the hunting party that comes closer and closer. For now that they have come within a few hundred metres of the gate, do I see the frost giants. These are the ones who adorned the tapestry in the castle’s solar, these who are far more accurate to the pictures I held in my head of them as a child. There are easily two dozen of them, riding atop the _ísverur_ and walking alongside it. They are twelve-foot tall, the tallest easily gracing fifteen feet. They are under-dressed for the climate to my eyes, clothed in stiff, kilt-like garments with furs around their shoulders. There are huge fangs strung around some of their necks, and others still wearing helms and leather bracers on their arms. Some wear armour for which I can see no buckles or straps. Most of them, male and female both, do not have hair.

And I am trapped. I have nowhere to go. I am sure there are more frost giants waiting further inside the barbican, waiting for me to cross the threshold so they can hack me to pieces with swords of enchanted ice. I cannot move along the dark stone of the wall, for the white fur of my cloak offers too stark of a contrast, and I am too frozen and numb to run far. So it leaves me only one of two options. The first is that I can stay where I am and be caught, or the second is to stumble off the road and hide against the ice.

I wrench myself upright, nearly tripping over my feet as I hit the snow. I huddle in my cloak, only vaguely aware that I am an arm’s breadth from the road. But I simply do not have the energy to crawl further away.

But when the hunting party draws level with me, they simply … _pass by_. I quiver like a rabbit trapped in its burrow, but the metaphorical fox does not come and snatch me up. Another part wishes that the giants would hurry up and find me; the waiting is going to kill me, and surely my own heart breaking through my ribs will be much more painful than a simple blade to my neck. I barely bite back a whimper when the heavy step of an _ísverur_ resounds by my head.

I count a minute … two. The whale is dragged past, and only then do I finally have the courage to look up. Not one of the giants is looking in my direction, even though I am in plain sight. I frown. Why have they not seen me? I push myself up a little, but they still not do not look around. Slowly, ever so slowly, I raise myself into a sitting position. I am ignored.

_What?_

The last _ísverur_ passes me by, and as soon as it is halfway through the gate, the doors start to shut.

_No!_

This will be my only way in, so I throw caution to the wind and force myself to my feet. I get back onto the road, following closely behind the _ísverur’s_ spiked tail. As soon as it and I clear the threshold, the barbican is plunged into darkness as the gate crashes shut. I am in. And I am still bewildered as to how.

I had hoped it would have been warmer, but I suppose I am still too numb to properly register the change in temperature, if there even is one. I step away from the _ísverur_ , in case it should decide to violently move its tail and knock me down with it; I am sure I would break in two if it did that. I concentrate instead on the light at the end of the barbican.

I am the last to step out into the beyond courtyard, and I sudden feel like a child again. Everything is built for giants. The courtyard, if it were scaled to the size of the Æsir, would have been huge, but to me now, it is easily the size of a field. Giants mill around the edges, leaning casually against the sides of arches and talking to each other in a tongue I cannot understand. Some I see haggling over what I at first think is a dead cat, but, upon closer inspection, is an arctic fox, quivering with fright.

I have stepped into childhood nightmares, and for several seconds all I can do is slumped against one of the closest walls, shaking as the fox does. I watch it now, for the jotnar have seemed to have come to an agreement. Coins the size of small plates change hands and one of them grabs the fox. I have to bite down a screech as the jotun holding it suddenly breaks its neck, face unchanging as if it has snapped a branch for a fire.

I must get away from here. First, I think, I must look after myself before I can worry about Loki — after all, I am no good to anyone if I am unable to act. I have to find somewhere _warm_. Perhaps the stables where the _ísverur_ are kept will be a starting point — perhaps there will be hay there that will warm me. I lost all of my provisions af— … before Blíðýr … There’ll be food in the stables as well, and, if I’m careful, I’ll be able to sneak some away. I force myself after the _ísverur_ , wondering furiously what to do afterwards.

Find Loki.

I’ll search this place from top to bottom until I’ve found him. And then what?

It soon becomes clear that my presence in this … city? Castle? Fort? This … _place_ , is ignored. All I must do is scurry out of the way of knees. Sometimes, I tense when I see jotnar look in my direction, curiosity etched on their faces, but they do not pursue me. I don’t have time to worry about why they ignore me; I’ll figure it out later. But I still pull my hood further around my face, wrapping myself as tightly as I can in my cloak. Perhaps there are traders here, and they simply assume I am one of their number.

As the jotnar I follow and their _ísverur_ draw closer to the keep, I can soon make out the sounds of some sort of gathering. I think of cock and bull fights, a crowd egging on the animals they have bet on. The jotnar in the hunting party don’t pay much attention to the noise, and I am about to do the same when two young giants streak past m, only a couple of feet taller than me, and I catch only part of what they gabble excitedly to each other: “—di’s taken the half-breed to the cou—”

My heart thuds in my chest, and I tear after the children, a new burst of energy carrying me forward.

_Loki!_

I stumble after them for half a minute, and they nip past the guard at the keep gate; he only gives them a half-glance before he goes back to staring into space. I hurry past him, and he only graces me with a flicker of a glance. There must be traders here, then.

But I cannot follow the children any longer: I am accosted with a sea of legs. I cannot fight my way through them, and so I look around, desperately trying to search for a means through the crowd — it is easily six people thick in its thinnest part. I am considering crawling through legs when I see a spot. It is an elevated ledge, too small for any but a jotun child to sit on, and it is high enough that if I stand on my toes, then I’ll be able to see over the crowd. I go to it, hoisting myself up the stone latticework until I am seated snuggly within its confines.

And what I see next horrifies me.

The jotnar surround a courtyard, a large, flat area. It would usually be an open, airy place, open to the sky and the walls opened by arches through which the crowd and I now lean through. Above the courtyard, the intimidating keep looms: a structure of dark stone and ice. The courtyard’s floor is cleared of all but a few jotnar who look to be tougher and meaner still than those I have already seen. But it is not, as it is in stories, their ugliness that sets them apart — it is their hide. Each and every one of them is covered in thick, pale blue scars that are grossly different to the dark, parallel tribal patterns every jotun wears. No, those are scars of battle, won through sweat and blood and tears. Perhaps, I muse, they are war veterans, the scars gained through the hack and slash of Æsir swords. They wear armour on their shoulders, and battered pieces of chainmail that swing free — I think they look to be falling apart. Greaves and bracers encase their arms and legs.

They in turn are looking towards another party of jotnar that come through the crowd at the opposite end of the courtyard. There are seven of them, I summarise, and within their number is a smaller, struggling figure.

Loki.

My heart leaps into my throat, and I have to stop myself from screaming his name.

He is dressed in jotun garb. Whilst I am used to seeing him bare-chested, the clothes make him look very different to the man I knew in the castle. He looks terrible. Bruises blossom on his icy skin, and black jotun blood leaves dry trails down his hands and wrists. There are sores at the corners of his mouth, dark bags beneath his eyes, and the ghost impressions of chains wrap around his body. Why is he not healing?

He snarls as he is thrown bodily into the courtyard, snapping wildly at the jotnar ringing him. They laugh, leaning against the walls, and the crowd howls.

“Asgardian!” they scream. “Filth, scum, shit, bastard!”

“Look at him,” one of the giants who brought Loki says, jutting his chin towards him. The crowd falls unusually silent, their voices silenced by a casual remark. “He’s an animal.” The jotun flicks his eyes towards one of the other scarred jotnar and grins wide. “I win that bet, Salfang: the Asgardians really do act like wolves.”

I am confused. If the jotnar don’t act like this, then why does Loki? I have never known any of my people to act like a wolf, like Loki currently is. And then a horrible thought occurs to me — Loki has called himself a monster on more than one occasion, so … so what if has trained himself into acting like one? To fulfil some horribly inaccurate preconceived idea of the jotnar? It is a depressing thought, and I cannot help but feel some spike of pity. The _idiot_. I feel like weeping for him.

One of the other jotnar grumbles something under his breath and plunges his hand into a pouch by his side, tossing a fist of coins at the other who laughs as he catches them.

But my attention is turned to another who shoulders his way through the other frost giants with an obvious authority. He is a heavily built individual, with sharp cheekbones and an angular jaw. He isn’t scarred like the other jotnar in the central courtyard, and so I can only think that this must be a giant who holds some special title earned — perhaps through birth. In his hand is something so small I can’t make it out for a second. Then the giant flings it at Loki

A snowshoe hare hits Loki square in the chest, and it squeals when it falls to the floor, running for safety. But there is no safety — the entrances have been sealed off. Ice grows from the palms of the giants, and the hare darts from one arch to another, desperately looking for an escape. Loki stands in the centre of the inner courtyard, looking warily after the hare.

“You said you were hungry, little wolf,” the thickset jotun calls. “Feast on that. Do you not kill them with your teeth? Like an animal?”

Loki says nothing, suppressing a shiver as he crouches on the ground.

The jotun snorts. “Eat it. _Now._ ”

The bindrune flares to life, and Loki snarls in pain or rage, or perhaps a mix of both, as he is dragged forward by some invisible force. He leaps after the hare, chasing it down with lightning-quick speed. He pounces, but the animal nips past him, fleeing for its life. I cannot help but watch, held in place by morbid horror as Loki scrambles after it with a shout of anger, clawing at his shoulder desperately. But he moves forward, and within a space of three bounds, he pins the hare beneath his foot. He is still, shivering violently as the animal kicks under his foot — nose twitching, and eyes rolling.

“Well?” the thickset jotun asks. “Kill it.”

Shrieks from the crowd. I feel sick.

Loki shifts his weight, grabbing the hare by the head and lower neck, eyes closed in resignation and teeth grit.

“No,” the jotun says, amused. “Kill it with your teeth, little wolf.”

There are howls of approval from the surrounding crowd, and the bindrune throbs gold. The muscles in Loki’s neck strain as he tries to force his head away from his hands, lifting the hare to his mouth. He is fighting it desperately, and it takes much more effort than I expected to stop myself shouting out to him; I will not give myself away, I’ve come too far for that.

_Forgive me, Loki._

When the hare’s throat is at mouth height, Loki’s head snaps around, and the hare jerks as Loki sinks his teeth into its neck. It kicks once, twice, and then goes still. Loki falls back as soon as it’s dead, scrambling away as he spits blood and fur from his mouth, scraping hair off his tongue as he chokes on whatever made it down his throat. Laughter erupts from the watching jotnar, and I want to run to Loki, screaming at the beasts to leave him be.

But I can’t, for the thickset jotun who had been taunting Loki strides out, grabbing him by the hair and dragging him back to the carcass. He shoves Loki’s face towards it, seeming not to notice Loki’s struggles. “Good,” he says. “But your hard work must not be wasted — it would be a shame, after all. Enjoy the fruits of your labours, Asgardian. _Eat it._ ”

I have watched children play out this cruel game a hundred times before, but it is especially horrifying to see it acted out amongst adults. Loki whines, scratching at the jotun’s arms as he fights to straighten up, but the jotun’s size and weight offer him the advantage. The skin around Loki’s scalp is a pale blue for how hard his hair is being held, his lips pursed tightly together. Soon, the lower half of his face is smeared with blood.

The jotun, it seems, has grown frustrated. “Salfang, Bolthorn, halda honum.”

Two jotnar come forward, each holding two of Loki’s limbs to the ground. Loki snarls at them, twisting in an effort to escape, but his tormentor pays no attention. He strips bits of the meat off the carcass before he leans down, splaying a hand over Loki’s chest and leering at him. Then, quickly as to not give Loki a chance to bite at his fingers, slips one of the meat slivers in his mouth. Loki chokes on it, desperately trying to spit it back out.

“Salfang,” the thickset jotun leers, holding Loki’s mouth and nose closed, “hann mun kafna þegar Angrboda er mala cunt hana á andliti hans.”

Salfang roars with laughter, doubles up with it as do several other jotnar. I do not know most of what was said, but there was no mistaking that … one particular word. The wind is a freezing bite against my cheeks, and I only realise why when I dab my fingers to them — tears cling to the seams of my gloves. I notice more as they spill over my eyes, and I pull my cloak even tighter around myself, shoulders shaking in fright and hopelessness as I try to bite back my shuddering breaths. My heart pounds with rage against my ribs.

“Við skulum vona að svo vanhæfni er ekki erfðafræðilega, Helblindi,” another jotun says.

The thickset jotun snarls, and he wraps his fist around Loki’s upper arm, yanking him up. Loki kicks at the jotun’s shin, but the jotun doesn’t seem to notice, too busy replying to his friend in a biting tone. The show, it seems, is over for the public, for several jotnar begin to leave. I instead stay huddled on my ledge, thinking. I’ve found Loki, but running to him now as my heart yearns to do would be idiocy of the highest order. I am too weak, for one, and so, it seems, is Loki. We wouldn’t get three feet away. I cannot fight, for my only experience with fighting is the occasional punch-ups I would get in with my sisters and perhaps Áli and his brother. But each only lasted, at the most, a few seconds. I am woefully ill equipped to fight against jotnar covered in scars.

“Come on,” the thickset jotun snarls at Loki. “We’re done with you, _oskilgetinn_.”

Loki swears loudly at the jotun, who only laughs and wraps his hand around Loki’s skull. He drags him by the head back towards the keep, and I see my chance. I climb down as quickly as I can from where I perch and, staying close to the shadows, run after Loki. I will find out where he is being kept, perhaps even spring him free if luck allows me. We will steal one of the _ísverur_ , fight free of this place, and run and run and run.

I follow as silently as I can, darting out of sight when servants and soldiers pass through the corridors. I lose sight of Loki and the jotun more often than I see them, but I do not panic too much — Loki is causing such a racket I could find him half a kilometre away, if need be.

And soon, I follow Loki’s shouts down a set of stairs. I have to jump down them, for each step in itself comes to the height of my knees. By the time I reach the bottom, my feet are sore, and my legs are beginning to cramp. I have to rest for a second against the wall, rubbing the warmth back into me and chewing my cracked lips distractedly; I hardly notice when they start to bleed. Then, I cannot wait any longer. I step out of the shadows.

I should have looked where I was going, because I crash into something. I stumble as someone grunts above me, and before I can do no more than register that something happened, a hand grabs me by the back of my clothes. I let out a sharp gasp, but it cannot leave my lips as a palm is pressed to my face, muffling the sound. I struggling, kicking blindly at my captor.

“Oh, _shut up_ ,” my captor snarls. It is a woman’s voice, and that alone is enough to surprise me into stillness. My first thought is that it is a guard — even if the idea of a female guard is odd to me in the extreme — and my second is that it is Queen Laufey, here to visit her bastard child. But I do not think that is the case. I bring my hands to the finger pressing into my eyes, wrenching it away to get a better look at my captor.

The frost giantess has cheekbones that are even sharper than Loki’s. Her eyes are heavily-lidded, the lids shadowed with some kind of makeup. Her lips full, and she has a swan’s neck. She is a haughty looking individual, I think, and the rich, throaty purr of her voice seems to emphasise that. Haughty, but beautiful. But her face is twisted in a snarl. She doesn’t say a word as she marches back up the stairs, and I moan in despair as she takes me further and further away from Loki. I start thrashing again, trying my best to get away from her, but she only sighs and grips my clothing tight. I hear her claws rip through my coat, and I only have time to be thankful that she grabbed my under the cloak.

The heel of her palm is pressed firmly into my mouth, gagging me as she takes me through the castle; I notice she’s careful to keep herself, to keep me, out of sight. She otherwise strides through the corridors with an air that tell me she is comfortable with the space, evidently hinting to her history of an individual born into hierarchal power. She climbs up another set of stairs, ones that spirals tightly. Up and up she takes me, and I am beginning to get dizzy by the time she breaks off into a corridor. Doors flash past me before she barges into one. I only just have time to get the glimpse of a bedroom — well furnished with a queen-sized bed, a huge wardrobe, several small tables, and silverware oddly enough — before the giantess takes her hand away from my mouth. I gasp for breath.

But the giantess takes no note of my relief to have my voice back again. “Who are you, asynja?” she demands. Her eyes roam over my body, narrowing in apparent frustration, although I could not for the life of me guess why. Her eyes slide over my face, as if she can’t focus on it.

“Let me go,” I gasp.

“Hmph. You are a creature of poor negotiation skills, it seems.” Her grip tightens, and I squirm when her claws catch the skin of my back. I have no time to worry about the state of my clothes. “Why are you here? Did Odin send you?”

“No!” I try to twist around, hoping to wrench my clothes out of her fingers. “Wh—?”

“What other reason have you —?” And then she falls silent before shaking her head minutely. “Oh, you idiot girl. You _idiot girl_!” She shakes with anger, grinding her teeth and her eyes flaring. I stiffen, anticipating some kind of assault — perhaps she will dash me against the floor. “It was _you_ , wasn’t it? You who he took with him to his hideaway!”

“Who? Loki?”

“No, my white bear. Who do you think?”

“Who are you?” I cry. “Why are you so enraged with me?!”

“Why don’t you figure it out?” the giantess snaps. “Idiot girl. You saw Loki’s Asgardian face; did he tell you anything afterwards? Or was he bound before he could say anything?” Her teeth flash in the low light, and I struggle to think back to the exact words of the conversation Loki and I had after I lit the candle.

“You’re the one he has to marry,” I realise, whispering my epiphany to the room at large.

“Well done,” the giantess says in a deadpan. “Now, who are you? I would know the name of the one who doomed me to this … _marriage_.” She spits the word as if it is unfamiliar to her.

I stay silent, my lips pursed together.

“I won’t put you down until you give me a name,” she hisses.

I swallow. “Victory,” I say finally.

The frost giantess eyes me for a second longer before she releases me. I scramble away as quickly as I can, hiding myself between the bed and one of the room’s walls. “And you?” I ask sharply. “I have given you my name.”

“I am the Grief Bringer.”

“That is not a name.”

“Neither is yours, and yet I do not question it.”

“Then will you bring grief to me? To him?”

“To any who cross me.”

It seems neither of us are being truthful with the other. We look at each other across the space, sizing the other up and as taut as bowstrings.

“So what now?” I finally ask. “Why have you brought me here? To gloat at my capture? Why not turn me over to the queen?”

“You’re here to rescue him, aren’t you?” the Grief Bringer says, ignoring my questions. When I give a curt nod, she only laughs. “You and what army, Asgardian girl? You can’t be more than a couple of centuries old. And forgive me,” she says with a sneer, “but you are no fighter.”

I bristle. If my hundred and eighty-two years aren’t good enough for her, then that is her opinion. And perhaps I’m not a fighter, but I’m smart; I have a plan to get out of the city.

“Now, lift the spell that you have cast so I may properly see you.”

“I haven’t cast any sort of spell,” I snap. “I don’t know what you’re talking about! What do you mean you can’t see me? You obviously can.”

“Barely,” the Grief Bringer says. “I know you’re there, but I can’t … focus on you — my eyes insist on ignoring you. You are a shadow; a blur. I can barely tell the colour of your hair. So, remove your spell — it is tiresome.”

“I have no spell on me,” I say, but I say it without conviction.

“Is it in an amulet, then?” the Grief Bringer asks snippily. “ _Sei_ _ðr_ traced on your skin?”

“I wear no amulet,” I reply. “But my …” I frown. I do wear magic — my cloak. But it is enchanted against the cold. Isn’t it?

I scurry away to a corner and pull the fabric through my fingers. The runes stitched into it shimmer and shine, but they are no longer solely _Kenaz_ runes. It takes me a frustratingly long time to decipher what the other rune is, brought about for my lack of practice, and for how frightened, how cold, I am, but then I recognise it — _Algiz_ , the rune of protection. I sit there, utterly stunned, wondering at how powerful, and how priceless, this gift is that Loki has given to me.

“Where are you?” the Grief Bringer asks, breaking my thoughts. “Have you yet figured it out?” I notice too that she slides the door latch down. “I can stay here all day and night if I must, Asgardian.”

I am still for a second, but then I unfasten my cloak. When I shrug it from my shoulders, I gasp as the cold bites into me. It is like being plunged into the creek by my home during the spring, when the water is still cold enough to hold the bite of winter. I hug it close to me, but the spell seems to have been broken.

The Grief Bringer sets her eyes on me, and her gaze, for the first time, focuses. She takes me in, snorting quietly. “Pretty girl,” she comments dryly. “Exactly the sort I’d imagine Laufeyjarson would favour.”

I say nothing at the comment, huddling into my cloak and saying, “You’re to marry him? You don’t sound too happy about it.”

“And why should I be?” the Grief Bringer snaps, storming up to stand over me. Crouched as I am on the floor, she is even bigger, thirteen feet tall at least. “The jotnar are not ones who customarily pair strangers up with each other to bed. Storming Æsir….”

“Neither did I,” I say, looking down and wondering why exactly I brought the subject up. “Loki took me from my family ten minutes after I met him.”

“How?”

“He asked me to accompany him.”

“Either he is a gentleman kidnapper,” the Grief Bringer says, “or you’re charmed by men at the dip of the winter sun.”

I scowl. “It’s not like that. Not anymore.”

“Hence your being here.” The Grief Bringer sits on one of the chairs, crossing her legs and fixing her bloody eyes on me. “You Æsir are strange.”

“The same could be said for you,” I counter.

“Yes, but you _want_ to be with him,” she says. “Idiot girl.”

“I’m not an idiot,” I snap.

“You came into Utgard alone and unprepared,” the Grief Bringer says idly. “You’re an idiot, _vitskertr_.”

“Then perhaps you can tell me what to do,” I say, annoyed. “Tell me how I can take him back and get you out of the marriage.”

“ _Vitskertr_ ,” she says again. “There is no double-crossing Laufey-Queen. She will not tolerate something that she has laid claim to being snatched from under her nose. You have lost him, little girl. Go home while you still can. Your part in this game is over.”

“I won’t,” I say, surly. “I … I can’t. My steed is dead. I am stranded.”

“Then you’re fucked.”

We lapse into silence again, and I fiddle with the pack still slung across my body; I’d honestly forgotten I still wore it, so caught up was I with everything else.

“You are too,” I say, sniffing. “You’re just as … screwed, as I am if you’re going to do nothing about this marriage.”

“Because I can’t.”

“Perhaps we could do something together.”

“You have one enchanted cloak,” the Grief Bringer says. “That is not much against the hordes of Utgard.”

“Yes,” I say slowly, “but I could have more if you help me. You’d be helping yourself if you did that, too.”

I don’t think she hears the last words, because she throws back her head and howls with laughter, much like the jotnar in courtyard did. My ears burn with embarrassment, and I can do nothing but wait for her to calm down.

“Foolish,” the Grief Bringer chuckles. “Just because I have brought you here does not mean that I will help again.”

“So you’re just going to roll over?” I ask, aghast.

“I’ll do it my own way,” she says, her voice dropping into a growl. “I still have three days.”

My stomach drops. Three days. Norns…. That is nothing.

There is a glint in the Grief Bringer’s eyes as she looks at me before she shakes her head. “Foolish.”

Foolish I may be, but I will not give up.

“Two heads work better together than one,” I say quickly. “Why not? Give it a try at least, and if something goes wrong, if I am caught, then you can plead ignorance and I’ll be dead, leaving you to scheme as you please.” I fumble with the clasp of my bag, flipping the buckle up and thrusting my hand inside. My fingers close around the _Kenaz_ runestone, and it throbs with a faint light. “I can trade this with you. As payment for your help.”

The Grief Bringer is still, her eyes fixated on the stone. There is silence between us for such a long moment my arm begins to ache with the weight of the stone before the Grief Bringer stirs again. “If you give that to me,” she says, “I will help you. For this night and this night alone.”

My breathing eases, and I sag in relief. “You swear?”

“I swear,” she says with a roll of her eyes.

That is good enough for me, so I set the stone down on the nearest chair. The Grief Bringer plucks it up, and the stone’s light changes to a golden orange at her touch. “Huh,” she mutters. “Interesting.” She looks at me once more. “I’ll be back for you,” she says, before she crosses to the door and opens it. “There’s food on the night stand,” she calls over her shoulder. “I can hear your stomach rumbling from here.”

* * *

I don’t eat much of what is on the Grief Bringer’s nightstand — fish and some kind of root I had no hope of putting a name to — and spend the rest of the short day pacing, thinking desperately of what to say to Loki once I see him tonight. I’ve already tried the door, but the Grief Bringer has locked it. Whether it is to keep me in or others out, I would never guess, but I shoot beneath the bed when the lock rattles some hours later. It is the Grief Bringer, and she jerks her head to the side.

“Come, and put that cloak of yours on. I’m not carrying you this time, so keep up.”

I pull my cloak on and hurry out the door, throwing the hood up and falling into step alongside the Grief Bringer. We tread through the empty corridors — I pay attention to the weight of my steps and my breathing. I may know now why I slipped past the jotnar so effectively, but apparently, the cloak does not conceal sound, nor does it hide me when I make contact with other things.

We soon beginning the descent into the bowels of the keep, and I hold my breath as we come to the corridor in which the Grief Bringer caught me. We go a little further, down a second set of shorter steps.

“Stay close,” the Grief Bringer says, and I do, falling into her shadow.

“Halt.”

My first instinct is to freeze in place, but the Grief Bringer doesn’t so much as flinch. She continues forward, unperturbed.

“You shouldn’t be here.” I peek past her. A warden stands in the corridor, fitted in armour and scowling at the Grief Bringer. I think I see ice forming on the tips of his fingers.

“Yet here I am,” the Grief Bringer says, stopping in front of the guard. She holds out her hand. “I would have your keys. Now.”

“You think I’d just hand my —?”

“If you don’t give them to me,” the Grief Bringer says, a hint of impatience in her voice, “I’ll stick them in your eyes after I’ve ripped them from your belt. Keys.”

The warden hesitates, and then pulls out a ring of keys. He drops them in the Grief Bringer’s hand. She smiles sweetly at him and says lowly, “You need not worry — I will not go against my queen’s wishes and kill him.”

“First Helblindi-Prince,” the warden mutters as we pass him, “and now Angrboda.”

Angrboda. That is her name. It is one that sends a shiver down my spine.

The corridor is set with cell doors on both sides, and Angrboda, swinging the keys around her finger, stops at a cell two from the end of the corridor. She inserts the key, turns it once, and then shoves the door open. She looks inside, and sighs. “Thought so.”

I do not have time to ask what, because I hurry past her, only to stop dead.

The door was no quiet thing opening, and so I am befuddled as to why the figure laying on the lone cot in the room is still asleep. It is Loki, of that there is no doubt. I step further into the cell, barely keeping myself room bringing my hand to my nose — the smell of blood and piss is thick.

“Loki?” I whisper. I cross to him, but even when I lay my hand on his shoulder, he does not stir. I put my other hand there, shaking him gently, and then almost frantically, as he doesn’t move. “Loki!”

But Loki’s eyes are closed, his body unmoving, dead to the world. For one wild moment, I do think he is dead, but then I spot the pulse in his neck.

I fall to my knees, still shaking him, still begging him to move. He doesn’t so much as twitch.

“Why?” I ask, my voice cracking. I turn to look at Angrboda, eyes filled with unshed tears of disappointment and frustration. “Why won’t he wake?”

“Laufey-Queen,” Angrboda says simply, leaning against the doorframe. “After what happened earlier today in the courtyard, he … well, when he was returned here, he turned violent. Killed one of the guards, maimed another, hence the stink. This wouldn’t be the first time the queen has drugged a prisoner into compliance, nor the first she has chained.”

It is only when Angrboda says that do I see the glinting iron collar clamped around Loki’s neck, and matching shackles on his wrists connected to the wall above the cot. They are engraved with runes too, _Naudiz_ if I’m correct, a rune of binding. Other engravings are of a box-like nature, symbols I don’t know the name of.

“He’ll be like that for hours,” Angrboda says. “Smacking his head against the wall won’t make him flinch.”

“But … but he can’t be like this …”

“But he is, and there’s nothing that can be done. Now come on.”

She grabs me around the wrist, but I try to jerk away from her, calling to Loki before Angrboda claps a hand over my mouth. “He’ll hear you,” he says, jerking her head towards the warden. “We’re done here.”

She takes me back to her chambers, shoving a couple of the chairs together to make a crude bed. “Now sleep,” she grunts, settling herself on her own bed. Another night expedition is off the board, seeing as she’s once again locked the door and holds the key around her neck, clasped too in a tight fist. “You won’t be breaking any one out of a prison when you’re exhausted.”

“Take me tomorrow night,” I say quietly.

“No,” is the immediate reply. “Going once was pushing your luck enough. Going twice is foolish.”

“Then I am foolish.”

“I’ve already established that. Now go to sleep, little idiot.”

I stand up. “I’m going back tomorrow.”

Angrboda sighs and turns away from me. “Fine. On your head be it.”

“So you’re going to stop? One failure, and you’re ready to stop.”

“And I’ve already told _you_ ,” Angrboda says heatedly, turning back around and fixing me with a glare, “I’m going to get rid of the problem myself. If I have to slit the boy’s throat after the wedding then so be —”

“You wouldn’t _dare_ ,” I shout.

“And what would you do, little mayfly?” Angrboda retorts. “Such a threat is the girl who barely comes to my waist.”

“Fine.” I’ve already sunk my fingers into the fabric of my star dress before I finish the word, pulling it out of the bag forcefully and swallowing. “What more, Grief Bringer? What more will you demand?”

“A doll’s dress will not do much good for me,” Angrboda says.

“Then recycle the fabric,” I say, and I have to fight past a lump in my throat. I couldn’t bear to see this dress in tatters, but if it means getting Loki back, then so be it. “Please, help me. Perhaps he will not be drugged tomorrow morning.”

“‘Morning’?” Angrboda snorts. “I’m not conducting a prison break in the middle of the day. No, if you want to free Loki, then we’re doing it by my rules. Night only.” Then she leans over and rips the dress from my hands. She holds it before her eyes, studying the fabric and ignoring my cry of outrage. “Shiny,” she says, before she puts in on her pillow and her head on top of that.

Tears slip down my face when I bed down for the night, hungry, tired, miserable, and freezing.

* * *

I do not leave the bedchamber for all of the next day. Angrboda does, for she has her own duties to attend to in the castle, mostly to do with the wedding, or so she tells me when she comes back to collect me that night to go down to the dungeon.

When Angrboda comes to the warden, she only says, “The keys.”

The warden hands them over without a word.

Angrboda, with me in tow, crosses to the cell again. “Out of luck, _vitskertr_ ,” she says. “He sleeps.”

I do not react as I did the night before. I still enter the cell, numbly standing over Loki as he sleeps. _Why?_ I ask myself. _Why did you land yourself in this position, Loki?_

My hand slips from beneath my cloak. In my hand, I hold one of my pressed flowers from _The Language of Flowers_ : an orange mock. Orange mocks are flowers of deceit, but all I can do hope with all my heart Loki too knows that. I place it under Loki’s hand before turning back to Angrboda. Her head is tilted to the side, curious.

“I want to come back tomorrow night,” I say.

Angrboda barely restrains from rolling her eyes. “It’ll be the same as this,” she says.

But I shake my head. “No, it won’t.”

“You can’t know that.”

“But I do know it.” My hand is in my bag again. “Please,” I beg, holding out the only possession I have left that I can bear to part with — _The Language of Flowers_. “One more night. All I ask for is this last one….”

“My, my, more things?” Angrboda asks. Her eyes flash as she looks at the book. “What a positive _bag_ of surprises you are.”

“It will be yours, here and now, if I am allowed this final night with him.”

Angrboda doesn’t reply at once. She riffles through the pages, looking at the drawings of the flowers and those pressed inside with sudden awestruck wonder. I doubt she has seen such things before if she looks to them with so much reverence. Her fingers brush over the drawings, and she picks up the flowers. I wait with baited breath; will she accept it?

Then, she snaps the book shut and says haughtily, “Fine. But I don’t know what this will change.”

“It will change,” I say through grit teeth. “It will.”

Angrboda shakes her head. “ _Vitskertr_ ,” she sighs.

* * *

I spend the day praying. Praying to myself, to the Norns, to anyone and everything that tonight I will be able to talk with Loki again. It has to work. Please, please.

Please….

And right on time, Angrboda comes to get me. In her hand is a lantern, and she merely holds her chamber door open as I walk past her.

“It is a pretty book indeed,” Angrboda is saying as we walk through the castle. “Pity the words are so small. And the flowers … fragile things. Didn’t realise that until I ripped one.”

“Which one?” I ask, dreading the answer. If it is one of the roses, I will never forgive her.

“Blue flower,” is the reply. “Ugly one, anyhow. _Heyakinth_.”

“Hyacinth,” I correct.

Angrboda only grunts.

The warden only looks at Angrboda, who doesn’t even open her mouth tonight. The warden drops the keys into her waiting palm, and as we get further away from the warden, Angrboda says lowly to me, “You’d better be right about this, _vitskertr_.”

I cannot answer. I will be shattered if Loki is asleep.

The lock clanks as Angrboda turns the key, and she opens the door only a crack when a snarl rings through the gap. I could have shouted for joy, could have wept with relief.

“And we’re in luck,” Angrboda mutters.

I dash past her before she manages to open her mouth again; she only raises an eyebrow as I snatch the lamp from her, too.

“Loki!” I call.

“Sigyn?”

He sits on the cot, and the snarl around his mouth dies as soon as he sees me. His eyes widen as I rush to him, throwing my arms around his neck and sobbing into his shoulder. All of my worry and heartache comes pouring out of me now that I am here, my face buried against his skin and my fingers wound in his hair. Loki is hugging me just as tightly, rocking me back and forth and murmuring reassurances in my ear. When he pulls away from me, he runs his thumbs across my cheeks, lingering on the cuts and scratches from the snow storms on the way to Utgard. He frowns, and before I can do much else than register the expression, I feel that same tingling warmth as I had done when he healed the faerie bite on my ear. I feel the cuts close, and my lips are suddenly healthy — the need to incessantly chew and lick them vanishes.

He pulls back even further, eyes snapping to Angrboda. He snarls quietly. “Why are you here?”

“Well excuse me,” Angrboda says. “No need to thank me for bringing your precious _Sigyn_ to you.”

Loki’s chains rattle as he shifts his weight, and I say quickly, “Loki, please don’t.”

“You look at her again,” Loki spits at Angrboda, “and I will have your eyes.”

“Loki —”

“You don’t know what she’s like, Sigyn.”

“Or perhaps she does,” Angrboda says.

Loki snarls, “Get — out.”

Angrboda’s eyes ignite with fire. “Fine, you ungrateful shit,” she says heatedly. “Be alone.” Then she slams the door, locking us in.

“Loki!” I exclaim. “You …”

“She’ll be back,” Loki mutters. “Tomorrow’s the wedding, after all.”

“We could have gotten out of here — tonight!” I shout. “Loki, you ungrateful —”

“And what could have Angrboda done against an army?” Loki asks, impatient. “We would have all been killed. Sneaking out will mean that you and I would have to be running for the rest of our lives if we somehow manage to escape. No, if we are to beat the Queen, then we must do so obviously.”

“That still wasn’t fair of you,” I say. “I don’t approve of your methods much.”

“I’m sorry you don’t, but unfortunately this is not a situation that can be won with under-the-table trickery. Not entirely, anyhow.” He grips my wrists, running his thumb over the back of one my hands. “Trust me, Sigyn. Please.”

I am still for a moment, and then I slump. I can see he’s right, as much as I hate to admit it. I feel incompetent, foolish in the extreme. I turn my attention away from Loki, reaching into my bag and pull out the falcon feathers; they are slightly crushed. “Do you trust me, then?” I ask.

Loki’s hand closes over them, and he touches his nose to the inside of my wrist. “Always, Sigyn. I’m sorry.” His voice is sincere, perhaps even more so than I have ever heard.

I take my hand away and pull his hair over his shoulder. He does not look away from me as I tie the feathers back into it, and immediately, something is fixed. “You shouldn’t have shouted at her,” I say, dropping on of the feathers and tying the second in. “She hates this as much as you do.”

“It doesn’t make her a friend.”

“But her cause is ours — it makes her an ally.”

“Partially. I can’t trust her, Sigyn. For all you and I know, she could just want to kill us.”

“She had a good chance to then.”

“Not whilst we’re still here and under the Queen’s thumb.”

“Why does Angrboda hate you so much?” I ask. Then, sarcastically, I add, “It _can_ _’t_ be anything to do with your charming personality, can it?”

Loki’s mouth twitches with a smile. Then he shakes his head, face serious again. “Angrboda does not care for our marriage simply because it is for Asgard’s satisfaction only, but it will tie her to me forever,” he says. “Marriages between the jotnar have a different definition, that being when a child is born to a couple. Nothing will come of our partnership in jotun eyes because I am barren. Like a mule because of my mixed blood.”

“Some aren’t,” I say.

Loki snorts. “One in a million, Sigyn,” he says. “As it is, there have only ever been a handful of those of Æsir-jotun descent, and each was the first and line of their line. Why should I be any different?”

“Some _aren_ _’t_ ,” I repeat with conviction, “and that is why not even the chance of this wedding happening can be taken.”

“And not because it’ll damn me to a miserable existence?”

I roll my eyes. “I’d hoped you’d be smart enough to realise that went without saying.”

He only chuckles. “I … I didn’t know what you’d think of me anymore. Not after our … parting.”

Ah. I bristle, the events of that night rushing before my eyes.

“That night … you deceived me — again,” I say. “You put something in the tea, didn’t you? That made me sleep.”

“It was enchanted chamomile,” Loki says, and guilt shines in his eyes. His expression is pained, and his chains rattle as he turns away, hugging his legs. “It was the best way. The least painful. I wouldn’t’ve had you watch the jotnar beat me into submission and bind me in the entrance hall. I’m sorry….”

“Did you do that to the servants too?” I ask, hushed. “Ambátt? Brúðguminn?”

“No.”

“Then what happened to them?”

“They were no longer needed, so they left.”

“You dismissed them?”

“No — they left.”

When I look my confusion, Loki only sighs. “Sigyn,” he says, “the servants were sustained by magic, and since I as the lord of the castle had left, they were no longer needed.”

“Then where did they go?” I ask.

“You found them,” Loki says. “The skeletons.”

I do not understand at first, and I am quiet for a moment, trying to process what he has told me. “They were dead?” I ask after a few heartbeats, horror colouring my voice. “They were dead all along?”

Loki only nods.

Then something comes back to me, something that Brúðguminn said to me when I first arrived — “We’re as quiet as ghosts and walk in the shadows.” It was something to be taken quite literally, it seems. It explains why they came so quickly at my call too — they were all around, waiting in the walls. I think of not only Brúðguminn, but also of Ambátt, Saumakona, Kokkurinn … Dead … all of them. I feel sick.

“The first lord of the castle, upon its completion, slew a troop of servants and bound them to the stones so they would serve every master after him,” Loki says in a tight voice. “Upon my acquisition of the castle, they belonged to me. The servants were bound to me and they became part of me, an extension. Facets of me bled into them — shards of my thoughts, my emotions. In theory it would let them serve me better if they knew my frame of mind.”

“So that’s why they were reacting like they were when I left,” I whisper. “Why they were so down about my departure — it was you.” I cannot help but think of that one skeleton I found, the one that I thought no taller than Brúðguminn. Norns, how the thought haunts me, ironically true as it is. I feel like crying. How I want to cry. “Did you know?” I ask, my voice almost cracking. “Did you know when I found them?”

Loki only hesitates a fraction of a second before he nods.

“Why didn’t you tell me? _Why?_ ”

“Because you’re too kind,” Loki says. “The truth would have wounded you deeply — it _has_ hurt you.”

“They were _people_. Trapped into service forever.” And I took advantage of them. Norns, I took advantage of them. I tremble, stealing a hiccupping gasp of breath before Loki rubs circles into my back, his throat on my shoulder, and he begins to purr. The vibrations of his throat have a strangely calming effect, and I can feel my shakes lessen. I lean further into him, concentrating on bringing my breathing back under control.

“You were good to them, far kinder certainly than I,” Loki murmurs. “They were the ones who had to bear the brunt of my rage and pain for years, but they _loved_ you, Sigyn. They will love you still if you return when their new master calls upon them.”

“What pain?” I ask. “What rage?” I look at him, touching his shoulder with the tips of my fingers. “Loki, you said you grew up in Asgard’s courts, so why were you trapped in the castle so recently? You’ve been an adult for centuries. Why are you cursed?”

Loki is stiff and deadly still. His breathing has sped up minutely. He is silent for a long time, and I fully expect him to lead off on a new topic, but he finally says, “You wish to know?”

I feel like I have a right to know, after everything that’s happened. But I don’t put the thought into words. I only nod instead.

Another stretch of silence goes by, and as I wait, I become aware of the sound of dripping meltwater from somewhere else in the area. I keep my eyes downcast, too; I do not want to pressure him to hurry up. From the length of the silence that has already elapsed, I know that Loki is having a difficult time.

But eventually, after almost a minute:

“It started during the Asgard-Jotunheim War.” Loki isn’t looking at me — instead, his gaze is fixed on some distant point I cannot see. I lift my eyes to his face, staying as still as I can whilst his throat works. Then, he continues. “There was a truce called early on to try and negotiate peace, but sometime during that meeting, King Odin Allfather and Laufey-Queen lay together. Why is still a mystery I have yet to solve, but whether it was born of lust or twisted politics or some strange combination of both, I was conceived.” His eyes are dark, and his fingers dig into the cot’s edge. “Only a few trusted advisers of Laufey-Queen knew of the pregnancy, and my birth within the depths of Utgard’s castle was a quiet event — apparently I was so small that I slipped from her like a snake. There was no need to announce the birth to the realm, and why should it have been? I am a half-blooded bastard born of two thrones, hardly in an enviable position when my parents were determined to slaughter the people of the other. You can imagine just how well my existence would have settled with the populace.” He gives a sharp bark of laughter, one that is devoid of humour. I do not speak, merely wait for him to continue his story.

“I don’t know how Odin found out about me — a spy, a messenger, scrying, rune tossing, or even a stray rumour — but the fact remained that Odin had given Laufey a son, and as such he demanded me. Laufey-Queen refused — I was a valuable asset after all. It was that of all things that enticed Odin Allfather to take the final march upon Utgard; he would not let her have such an important political tool as I, especially powerful when considering the House of Buri’s almost legendary blood feud with the jotnar. He defeated Laufey-Queen in battle and took me back to Asgard.

“I grew up in my Æsir shape and knew nothing of my jotun blood until, in the grand scheme of things, recently. After its discovery, I went, like a fool, to Utgard to demand answers. The only explanation I can think of as to why I did it was because I was desperate, caught in the grip of madness. My father was indisposed, and my stepmother ruled as regent. I was nothing but a shadow, and so it was easy to slip away. Laufey-Queen had thought me dead at the end of the war, put down by Odin in shame, so when I showed the opposite to be true, she was furious. She incarcerated me and summoned my father.

“Noble births, even the birth of a noble’s bastard, casts the child into a political game they may not even be able to escape in death. My fate was to be fought and sniped over because of the position I would grant one of my parents and the leverage I would bring. Whilst they fought, I was sitting in this very cell a wreck, my throat raw from screaming and my eyes run dry for my grief. I had learnt that not only was I a bastard posing as an heir to the throne of thrones, but a monstrous, half-blooded one at that. Was I Odinson, or Laufeyjarson? Even now, I do not know. Some days I am one, and some days the other. Some, I am neither, merely content to exist as only Loki. But that’s the thing about me, Sigyn — I can never simply stay content with just myself, and I _hate it_.”

Loki takes a breath to calm himself before he continues. “The truth nearly broke me, and it was that of all things that set the wager between my parents — a bargain for me. I had a choice about which side to fulfil it on — on Æsir grounds, or jotun, but the rules were identical no matter what I chose. I would be forced into one shape by day, and by night, I would revert back to my other. I chose to fulfil the bargain on Æsir grounds, and as such, I would be cursed to my jotun skin for the day. I was given a castle in which to fulfil it. I had to take to this castle a woman I had never had any contact with, and she would only see me as a monster. If this continued for a year and she fell in love with me, then I would belong to her and her realm. If I lost and she saw me in or knew about my other form, then I would belong to the other realm and be forced to marry there.”

I am silent. Loki’s screams from that night and his words make horrible sense to me now. I feel sick to my stomach. I knew he was a prince, and a bastard, but never a bastard of two monarchs. And the game they were playing with him, forced him to play because of political gain, ignites a fire in my heart. I feel so inexplicably guilty that I had upset his balance in this precariously played game. My hands shake with rage, and I feel such pity for this man it threatens to consume me.

My arms are around him before I can hold myself back. Loki stiffens, but then he relaxes and melts into me. His nose is in my hair, and his breaths are so warm against my scalp that I try to get even closer to him them I already am. I do not know where we are individuals anymore — I am a part of Loki, and I share his grief as he wraps his arms around my back, rocking us gently as children might when they embrace. It is so comforting I could not pull away even if I had wanted to.

“I wandered for so long,” he whispers, and it is now his voice cracks, betraying the emotion before buried deep. “Ten years I was trapped in my jotun form, looking for someone. Then I saw you this past year taking in the harvest after the September rainfall. I saw you, heard your presence whispered to me in the rain, and I knew at once that you were the one. You were covered in dirt, kneeling in the mud and pulling up the saddest looking carrots I’ve ever seen. And then when it stopped raining and you looked up at the sun, what the light did to your eyes … they were like molten gold.” He laughs again, holding me tight. “It’s pitiful when said like that. Regardless, it’s the truth — I was enchanted, Sigyn.” His eyes are desperate as he grips my hands. “I’m sorry. For all of it. Taking you away from your family, taking you to the castle, not telling you —”

I silence him with a kiss. Words, I know, will not speak loudly enough for me now. Part of me does not understand why he is apologising. He has fulfilled his promise to my family, who are happy and healthy and most importantly thriving, and he had given me an easy life of luxury and my heart love.

For I love him.

I love him.

The realisation is like the sweetest of music in my ears, and I whisper it into his mouth, unable to say anything else as I kiss him. And once I have said them, it is such a simple thing to say: those three words. It seems so obvious as well. I love him, and there is nothing more to it. It is why I do not understand why he has gone rigid. Maybe, I think, he is happy. Another treacherous part of my mind reasons that he doesn’t love me, and he simply is thinking of what to say so not to hurt me.

“What is it?” I ask. I regret the words at once. What if he says he does not return the sentiment? If he says he does not give an ingot’s worth for me and I have fulfilled my role as he first planned?

These fears, however, are brushed away as he says, “I never thought you would say that. I had hoped —”

“Hush.” My fingers curl in his hair, and I place my forehead against his, closing my eyes and breathing him in. “I had almost given up the hope of ever seeing you again, embraced the fact that I would die searching for you,” I say. “But I was told that we fated to be together — that we always have been, and we always will be.”

The words from the girl on the tundra echo in my mind:

_“There is no Loki without his Sigyn, and there is no Sigyn without her Loki.”_

She said that we were fated, and it is now of all times that I allow the smallest possibility of that to even be considered as some kind of truth. And then I think of the familiarity of the companion’s weight on my bed, and why it had felt such to me, why I had treasured that time and it had felt _right_ after a while — it _was_ right. It had happened in our past lives, would happen in our future ones, because even though we have been separated time and time again, our lives wiped clean, our bones remember what has before elapsed.

I tell him about her, and he listens with wide eyes as I describe the visions she had given me, how she talked of threads and fate.

“You’re mine?” he whispers. “They told you that you were mine, and I was yours?”

“Yes,” I reply softly. “Mine.” It is a satisfying word to articulate in its current context. “You are mine, and I am yours.”

He makes a noise that is halfway between a laugh, and halfway between a sob. His fingers tighten in the small of my back, and I lay my cheek on his head, closing my eyes and simply enjoying the warmth and weight of him against my chest.

“You will have me?” I ask, sitting back on my heels.

“Of course I will,” Loki murmurs.

“I thought you wanted a platonic relationship,” I joke, tracing his chest.

Loki chuckles. “I lied, Sigyn. Is that so surprising considering who I am?”

I have to laugh at that. “No more lying? To me, at least?”

“No promises,” Loki murmurs, kissing my neck softly. “I’ll try.”

“That’s enough.”

I am still as he makes a love-bite on my skin; I in turn run my nails through his hair and along his scalp. It is a quiet relationship we have always had, just being comfortable in the other’s company without pressure. It has transformed into one where I wish bitterly that it would never end, that he would press kisses into my skin forever and I push my fingers through his hair until we are nothing but dust. But I do not wish to break this moment — he is warm against me, and it is calming, knowing that I have him back, and that my journey was not for naught.

But as I look at him again through my lashes, he is so beautiful, achingly so with the lamp’s soft silver light illuminating his sharp cheekbones I must lick my lips, my mouth suddenly dry. I pull my fingers away, and he makes a noise of protest before I kiss his hair, making my way down to his forehead. I make a line down his face, touching my lips between his eyes and on the tip of his nose, working my way to his chin and down his neck and bare chest. He is still, barely breathing by the time I reach his abdomen, tracing the defined muscles with my fingers.

“Sigyn,” he sighs, hand coming to my hair and his voice slightly strangled.

I look at him, gauging his reaction. But his eyes are closed, his face slack, and I can feel the beginnings of a rumble of content deep in his chest. I am bold suddenly as my hands rest on the buckle of his belt. Loki’s eyes snap open, and he catches my wrist. I freeze at once, heart stuttering when I realise I have crossed a line. I begin to pull away, but Loki does not let me go. His eyes, when he looks into mine, are wide. “Sigyn.” My name is a gentle warning this time.

I shake my head, plucking up my courage. “Please, if this is to be my last night with you, then I want everything. Please, Loki.”

He is the one to lick his lips now, and his pupils are blown wide, and, I hope, not just from the poor light. “Are you sure?”

I have never been so sure about anything in my life. But as the enormity of what I ask crashes onto my shoulders, I hesitate briefly.

Then, I nod.

“You are brave,” he whispers. “Beautiful Sigyn. _My_ Sigyn.”

“Mine,” I echo. “ _Mine_ _…._ ”

There is no blood as I have often heard of when a woman has her first coupling, and the pain I feel is much less than I had expected — more so a strange discomfort. But the discomfort fades, and what is left afterwards is only bliss. His touches are expert, and his tongue and fingers work miracles and leave me boneless, breathless … His hands are strong and steady, and his lips are warm and leave tingles where he touches them to my skin, murmuring encouragement and love. I don’t want to ever leave this room. I want to spend the rest of my life here, curled up beside Loki and breathing in his utterly masculine scent — the scent of musk and electric magic and biting cold. It is perfect here, and I would not trade this moment for anything, not even for all the gold or miraculous deals in the worlds.


	9. The Knot

_In all my years of imprisonment, I hadn’t dared to have dreamt that I’d have a chance to feel this good again; not only to be able to revel in the afterglow of sex, but to simply know that I am wanted —_ loved _— even for all my faults and my lineage, and that I can love in return. It’s a comfort to know that the awakening of the ice in my blood hasn’t stolen those emotions like it has done other things._

 _Sigyn is curled in my arms, and she_ _’s drenched in my scent. The senses of my jotun form are much more vivid than those belonging to my Æsir self; my senses of smell and hearing became better, much more complex, and it opened a new world around me — one that I shunned. I could smell odours both pleasant and sweet everywhere I went, and sounds that were previously either too high or low for my hearing made themselves known. I welcome them now as I put my nose to her skin and inhale deeply. Her heartbeat is a steady, comforting_ thump _in her chest. I_ _’m drunk from us, from her. She’s beautiful, satisfied, content for now._

_And she’s mine._

_Fated to be mine, according to Skuld._

_But despair drowns me. I’ve lost the bargain, and I’m still doomed to be wed at dusk to one I despise. To come under a mother whom I would tear to pieces if I could. I have no doubt Sigyn’s come to help me escape, but the bindrune has me tied to a compass. Unless that’s broken, I’ll never have the chance to leave. The Queen would never let me._

* * *

I doze for a while — I’m not sure for how long, but I am woken by Loki’s thumb tracing along the length of my shoulder. I stir, brushing my hair from my eyes. “Loki?”

“Hello there,” he whispers.

He managed to sit up without disturbing me, leaning against the wall. I am boxed between his legs, my cheek slightly chilled where it presses against his thigh. “Hello,” I reply, holding my hand up to him. He threads his fingers through mine, and kisses my forehead. But the tranquillity is broken as the rush of dread drops on me. I scramble upright, blurting out, “It’s today. The wedding.”

“I know,” Loki says, quiet.

“Why did you let me sleep?” I demand. “Loki, we’re out of time. Angrboda will be coming back any moment and then —”

“You needed to sleep,” Loki says. “Have you seen yourself? You’re exhausted. I couldn’t wake you.”

“I can sleep later! We need to figure something ou—”

“I can’t see a way out,” Loki says flatly. “I have no small intellect, and my options are exhausted. The bindrune traps me. Seals Laufey-Queen’s words over my willpower. I can’t break myself out of this marriage unless she allows it, and she’s not one to give up what she has laid claim to.”

“I’ve heard.” I clutch my head in my hands, shoulders shaking, and despite all my clothes, they offer me little warmth. He rubs a soothing hand on my back, drawing his legs tighter around mine. His other arm comes around my waist as it has many times before, and I lean back into him, incredibly aware of his heartbeat despite the layers that separate our skin. I would have tried to match mine to his at another time, but I can’t now — I can’t concentrate on that.

“I’m sorry, Sigyn,” he says, whisper soft.

“Why?” I ask. “Is this it? ‘The end’? You’re going to give up?”

“I’ve already lost too much,” he says bitterly. “I’ve gotten my hopes up too many times, but yet they have been crushed in my every attempt to thwart the truth.”

His words pierce something in my own heart. “I’m sorry,” I say, the back of my throat suddenly aching with such guilt it feels like I have swallowed a ball of thorns. “This is my fault. All of it. I shouldn’t have looked. I shouldn’t have listened to my mother….”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Loki says gently, pulling me from my thoughts, “and do not blame your mother either. She was concerned, and I would have been damn well worried if she hadn’t been. It’s the Queen’s fault. And the Allfather’s.”

“It would be a noble thing to say if it were true,” I say, miserable. “It’s my fault, and I will feel that fault for many years — perhaps forever.”

“In a way, I’m relived it’s turned out so,” Loki breathes. “You won’t be saddled with the burden of a half-bred frost giant.”

“I’ll always be saddled with you,” I say. “Even if I manage to escape, you took my maidenhead. I am damaged goods.”

“Don’t you _ever_ say that,” Loki hisses, fury prickling his shoulders. “ _Never_ say that.”

“And I am just as angry with you for saying you have given up,” I retort. “Let’s sit down and _think_.”

Silence stretches between us. I lick my lips. “You’re good with words,” I say. “Could you not convince her to let you go?”

Loki barks a laugh. “You put too much faith in my abilities.”

I make a strangled noise of frustration in my throat, trying to think of any possible way out of this predicament to the point my head aches terribly afterwards.

But then an idea sparks in my mind. “You said marriage amongst the jotnar is dictated by the conception of a child,” I say. “Perhaps —”

“Stop,” Loki says, pained. “I’ve already told you: I will never sire a child.”

“Just please try,” I whisper. “You can check, can’t you? What do you lose by trying?”

He only gestures to the bindrune on his shoulder — it glows softly. His magic has been sealed. “I used the last clinging wisps of my magic to heal you. And even if I could access my magic, I wouldn’t. I don’t … I don’t want to give myself hope,” he says, miserable. “If by some miracle it worked, then what? We would die anyway; the Queen would slaughter us.”

“She would have to let us go,” I say. “Loki….” But I swallow and say, frustrated, “Then do you have a better plan?”

We lapse into silence; I scuff the stone floor with the rough underside of my deep winter boots. Solutions to the problem keep coming to my mind, rational ones at first, but when I dismiss them one after the other, they continue to become wilder and wilder. I keep returning to jotun marriage ceremonies, for what if Loki is wrong? What if he can sire children and I just happened to be at the right time of my cycle to conceive? But the more thought I put into that too, such an idea becomes just as impossible. The other one I settle on is that we can kill Laufey-Queen. We could recruit Angrboda’s services again. I look at my bag for any more possible bribes for her, but the things within it are useless — two more dresses, the binding cloth, the _Sol_ rune necklace, a few bracelets, and the _Ehwaz_ pin. But another wild idea occurs.

“I bribed Angrboda,” I blurt out, so desperate for a solution that I have to break the silence or else rupture something in my throat. “Perhaps Laufey too can be bribed.” I show him what remains in my bag.

Loki freezes, eyes wide. He holds his hand out for it, and I pass it to him.

He reaches in and pulls, of all things, the binding cloth between his fingers. His eyes bulge, and his mouth gapes. “Sigyn,” he says slowly, “do you have any idea what this is?”

“A binding cloth,” I say. “My father says it brings great fortune. If it’s valuable, Laufey may find it use —”

“It brings more than luck….” Loki shivers with a laugh of relief. “You, Sigyn, you … you are wondrous. Perhaps I should believe in coincidence more.”

“Tell me what it is.” I wish he would stop laughing and tell me the cloth’s significance. “It’s not enough to bribe her with, is it?”

He shakes his head before looks at me and says, breathless, “No, not nearly enough. But we don’t need to bribe her. This is ancient magic, and the _Ehwaz_ , _Uruz_ , and _Naudiz_ runes make a spell near-unbreakable. So great is this spell that it is not lightly cast — consequences are measured.”

“So?” I prompt. “If not a bribe, then what?”

“This means,” Loki says, excited, “that this is our way out. You’re brilliant, Sigyn. You’re brilliant.”

“But so what? I have a magic hand binding cloth that will not buy your freedom, so how does that help us?”

“The only way this will knot,” Loki says, “is if both parties want the marriage, consent for it to happen. You said it yourself: I have to convince Laufey to let me go. I can do it with this! Marriage isn’t the jotun way, so if I can convince her to comply to Æsir wedding traditions with a hand binding cloth, and then invent some lies along the way, the cloth won’t knot together. No marriage, no bargain; I would walk free.”

I am too numb with shock to feel anything else. But as Loki continues to talk, giddiness starts to blossom within my chest. My breaths come quicker. “… Really? You will be able to walk free? We’ll be able to escape?”

Loki nods, a grin splitting his mouth. “Yes. Norns, neither Angrboda nor I want this marria—”

His mouth snaps shut all at once, and he swings his gaze to the door, stock still.

“Loki?” I ask. My heart, before fluttering as fast as butterfly wings with excitement, slows a little.

“Pull your cloak on,” Loki says sharply. When I don’t move, he whirls to me. “Do it!”

“What?”

“Someone’s coming.”

“But if it’s —”

“It’s not Angrboda,” Loki says. “Sigyn, do it.” He throws it around my shoulders and says quickly, “I need you to trust me. You love me, yes?”

“Yes,” I reply at once.

“Then will you marry me?”

I do not need to think: “Yes.”

Loki grins and kisses my forehead quickly. “Then I’ll need you. Trust me.” Then he shoves me back to one of the cell’s far corners and stuffs the binding cloth and my bag deep under the cot. “We have until dusk.”

I barely tighten the cloak’s clasp in time. The door crashes into the opposite wall. Loki starts forward, but he is held on a compass by the chain. He stretches his arms as far behind him as he can, straining towards the half-dozen jotnar who enter the cell. I have to press myself as tightly as possible into the corner. They are guards, armed with spears and shields.

“Back, half-breed,” one of the guards snarls, jabbing at Loki with the butt of his spear. “Make way for the queen.”

“That is entirely unnecessary,” a smooth voice says. “He is trapped enough as it is.” Another steps into the cell.

The first thing I think about Laufey-Queen is that she is the one Loki took after. They look almost identical; they share the same haughty cheekbones and slender build, the same clever eyes and thin lips. Her black hair is held in place by thick tar, and feathers are stuck into the spikes to make a crown around her head. When she smiles, it is Loki’s smile I see, but it shares none of his warmth.

She pushes past the guards. They incline their heads to her, but she ignores them, her gaze instead fixed on Loki. He doesn’t cow before her, only bares his teeth and glares. But the façade is not one he can maintain forever. When she reaches towards him, Loki suppresses a flinch as her claws trail down the length of his cheek. It is a gesture of careful calculation rather than one of affection. It is the movement of a buyer purchasing livestock.

“One thousand and fifty seven years,” Laufey says, “and finally you return to where you belong.”

“I don’t belong to you,” Loki hisses, before he spits something ugly at her. There is a minute tremble in his frame.

Laufey snorts with derisive laughter, before she digs her claws hard enough into his jaw to make it bleed. Loki doesn’t pull away, but his eyes water slightly with pain. “I am your Queen, and you my blood,” Laufey says. “It is by my kindness that you ever lived. Spearbreaker-Odin has relinquished you; you are mine by law.”

“I’ll never be yours.”

“Is this defiance?” Laufey laughs quietly. “I did not expect that sentiment from you, child-mine. I had thought such speeches as ‘you may have my body, but not my mind’ were beneath you. You do so hate old clichés, my son.”

“You must forgive me for using them from time to time,” Loki snarls. “Everyone does.”

“Not you, though.” She pushes him away roughly, and the chains slacken as Loki stumbles back. “It is clear the boy is distracted with the marriage. He needs his mind turned back on today’s events. Take him to Glumra-Seamstress.”

Two of the guards go to Loki, unchaining him from the wall, but clamping another collar on him before he can get away. They tug him out of the cell, Laufey behind them. But before she shuts the door, she pauses, and takes a long sniff of the air. … Can she smell me? But then she pulls the door closed. I choke on my breath, fearing that I’m locked inside. I have to stand on my toes and jump to catch the door handle, but it swings open easily enough — of course, there would be no point in locking it now. Perhaps then my presence has gone undetected.

I scurry back to the cot, dragging my bag out and groping in the shadows for the binding cloth. I roll it up carefully and place it deep into my bag — I can’t lose it now.

I step warily into the corridor. It only crosses my mind then that I don’t know where Angrboda is. I’m certain that she would’ve come by now, if only so not to throw suspicion on herself if I were to be caught when Laufey came. I entertain thoughts of going back to her chambers, but it is, I reason, a foolish endeavour. No doubt she wouldn’t be alone, not on her wedding day. Her chambers would only be a lion’s den.

 _The plan_ , I think, frantic. _I have the binding cloth. How will I get it to Loki?_ I can hardly march up to him in the middle of the ceremony and hand it over. I have to find him. _Where_ _’s the seamstress?_

I blow a breath of air through my lips, before rubbing my hands together and starting towards the dungeon’s exit. All I have to do is go exploring.

* * *

‘Going exploring’, I find after a half hour, is a fruitless endeavour. The castle is simply too big, too full of winding corridors and jotnar that I can’t sneak about and hope to eventually stumble across Loki. I curse myself for not following him when he was taken from the cell. It has crossed my mind to eavesdrop on some of the servants in the kitchens, which were easy to find, but such a plan is quickly discarded when all the talk I hear is in the guttural, tongue-tying language of the jotnar I can understand precious few words of.

I find myself going back to the courtyard.

It has transformed drastically since I first laid eyes on it.

The walls see to have been pushed further out, creating more room for a crowd of jotnar. There are no seats for the guests, nor are there any decorations as I would have expected at another wedding, but a dais has been constructed opposite the castle’s entrance. A tower of spiked pieces of ice erupts into the air at the back of a dais, like a bird’s tail feathers. A frost resides over the courtyard, giving it the sheen of another world.

There are a few jotnar bustling around the place, sculpting and resculpting parts of the ice behind the dais and the courtyard’s new walls, and a half-dozen servants set out a long table laid with deep stone bowls of drink. It is this sight that seems to make everything real. It’s a funny thing to think, really. But this whole situation, the entirety of the bargain, was something so big and fantastical that some notion of ridiculousness had gripped me. But now….

I am deathly afraid. My hand sneaks inside my bag, and I close my fist around the binding cloth, squeezing it to assure myself that there is a _way out_.

I cannot linger here.

I have to think logically about this.

Firstly, I need to find someone that is connected directly to where Loki is now — I can only think of him, the seamstress, and the queen. I then think about where exactly in the castle the seamstress corridor would be located. My first instinct is to say it would be on the ground floor, closer to the servant quarters, but then I put the thought away. The workshop wouldn’t be near the servant quarters; Saumakona’s wasn’t. Hers was on an upper floor deep in the heart of the castle, but I doubt that this seamstress will have her workshop in the same location.

I gnash my teeth in frustration, pivoting on my heel and going back inside. I have to find someone that can lead me to the seamstress. Someone like Laufey, who will no doubt be looking in on Loki. I have already found the throne room too, but it, and the beyond antechambers, were empty. Court has been postponed today, evidently. Could she be in her solar? Or is she hovering over Loki’s shoulder even now, plucking and pruning him to her perfection. The very thought of it makes me shudder. I have only set my eyes on Laufey for barely more than two minutes, but that, and what I have heard, is enough to make me loathe her.

I eventually settle on trying to find the solar; what more can I do? And if I climb the levels, then perhaps I will be lucky enough to stumble on the seamstress before that. I stay close to the wall as I head towards the main staircase, planning the best way I can sneak up them and avoid the constant traffic upon them — the cloak doesn’t make me invisible, but rather encourages others to look away from me. I crouch by the balustrade, settling on a plan to dog one of the servants’ footsteps so not only can they clear a path for me, but will almost ensure that no one sees me. I’ll have to be quick, though — the stairs are tall.

I dart out of my place when a serving girl holding a stack of sheets makes her way up. I hug her shadow as we climb the floors, two, three, four … But she eventually breaks away, striding down a corridor. I have to keep climbing, though. Luckily, the traffic flow here is much less than it is at the stair’s bottom. I’m panting and, with a deep breath, I continue upwards.

It is a dizzying climb, going around and around in a tight spiral, and I have to thank the fact that my rooms at the other castle were floors and floors up. I am used to climbing, even if my legs burn. But when I run out of stairs, I am stumped for what to do next. There are doors leading off in five different directions, and I have little idea about which one to follow. I have a one in five chance of finding the solar if it’s on this floor. I start at the passage on the far left, and I find nothing. Disheartened, I go back to the stairs and try the second on the left. I find here an empty room, finely furnished; it is a good sign, I think, because it means I’m in the right part of the castle. I hope.

From behind me, I hear shouting. I twist around, my heart in my mouth and a scream bursting forth on my lips. It takes me a second to realise that the shouts comes from the stairs. Curious, I creep back to where I hear two jotnar spitting at each other like cats. They are arguing furiously, a constant stream of alien words that sound like dream nonsense rather than a language. I tip-toe around the passage’s corner.

One of them is the thickset jotun who tormented Loki with the hare. Although I know I am safe, my first instinct is to dive away from him — I have seen only too well what he is capable of. And now that I’m closer, only mere metres away, I am shocked to see how closely he seems to resemble Loki. Who is he, then? A relative? The other is markedly younger than him, slighter and far less scarred. There is, I think, an air of shyness about him. There is far less conviction behind his tone than the other’s.

“ _B_ _ýleistr_ ,” the thickset jotun hisses. “Þú hræddur eða eitthvað?”

The younger lifts a lip. “Nei. Ég hef enga ósk til að sjá hann.”

The older spits on the floor. “Ég skal segja þér um það eftir að ég kem aftur. _Huglaus_.” He turns on his heel and barges down the stairs, leaving the younger one behind.

“Bróðir —”

“Þú hefur gert ákvörðun þína. Vertu með henni. Loki verður á miskunn mína, þá.”

My stomach jolts. Loki, he said. A lead? I sprint after him.

The younger is angry; he shakes with it, but he only turns away bitterly, rubbing his arm where a bruise is forming. I ignore him, boots almost sipping on the icy stairs as I jump down three at a time. I keep observation of my route in the back of my mind as the thickset jotun plunges into a side corridor on the third floor, just in case he isn’t going to Loki’s location. But as he goes further into the heart of the castle, the sounds of activity dim, until the sounds of the servants in the castle are nothing but distant background noise. Guards also line the corridors here, and that is enough to secure something inside my heart. I know I’m going in the right direction, lead by this jotun through maze-like corridors.

The room he stops outside is closed tight, but he throws his shoulder against the doors. They open, and he strides in purposefully. “Brother!” the jotun shouts, confirming my suspicions. He laughs then. “Well, well, look at you trussed up like a prized _klofir-hryssa_.”

“Die,” Loki’s voice spits back. I look into the room.

It’s a large and airy place, with high windows and sparkling décor. Deep in the room is a dais upon which several jotnar stand, bustling around a centre figure.

Loki’s ears, I see, are freshly pierced, hung with matching gold chains that are likewise wound into his hair. I am surprised to note that the falcon feathers are still there. Bracers are on Loki’s arms, greaves on his shins, and they fit to him perfectly and stay without any kinds of straps or buckles. There too is a design painted on his back — brown, spidery markings that must have some kind of ritual significance. Loki’s garb too is not the old, battered one he wore in the dungeons — the one he wears now is more suited to royalty, with finely tanned hide and what looks suspiciously like the same scale mail on the side as was on his trousers.

The jotun ignores him, and his eyes dart to the other side of the room. “And Lady Angrboda,” he says, curt.

I look around, and Angrboda is indeed there. But my surprise at her presence is soon swallowed by the sight of her. Her face is battered and bruised, her lip swollen and split, and half-frozen blood coats one side of her chest. Her head hangs limply, and she makes no protest as she is dressed finely in good cloth and gold. She wears a collar around her neck and, although it has a decorative appearance, it is blatantly obvious it is anything but a piece of jewellery. Loki, on the other side of the room, wears a matching one. Both of them look uncomfortably tight, the skin chaffed and raw beneath them.

Angrboda had said she was planning her own munity to the marriage; had she struck whilst I was in the cell with Loki? And what had she done that had deserved this? Perhaps the jotnar had gotten wind of our plans together, and consequentially beaten her until she told. But, I reason, that mustn’t have happened — no one is looking for me, or if they are, I have been fortunate not to have come across any hunting party.

She says nothing as the jotun strides towards her and grabs her jaw, forcing her to turn to him. “You’re perfect for him, you know?” he breaths, still in the All-Tongue no doubt for Loki’s benefit. “Your temperaments suit each other well. I’m looking forward to the day when news will come that you’ve torn each other to shreds.”

“And your temperament is hardly more pleasant, Helblindi-Liar,” she says coolly. “Perhaps I should be marrying you.”

“I wonder,” the jotun says, “will he hate you more if half of your face is scar tissue?”

“Leave her alone,” Loki hisses.

“Oh? So you care for her?”

“More than I can for you.”

“Huh. Your snark complements the others’, too.” He throws Loki another look and says, “Mother’s coming,” before he storms out.

After the jotun disappears around the corridor’s bend, I pad silently to Loki’s side of the room and settle myself by the wall. My hands are quaking, and I take the binding cloth from my bag, running the fabric between my fingers in an attempt to soothe myself. At my movement, I think I see Loki’s eyes flicker towards my hiding spot for a half second.

 _I have it_ , I think. _I can give it to you._ My hand twitches at the thought, as if desperate to pass it to him; I am terrified of misplacing it.

But his eyes unfocus quickly, and he swallows as one of the jotnar grabs an arm and pushes a golden armlet to his bicep.

“You should know, runtling,” one of the attendants says to Loki and she fits a length of thin chain and leather over the back of his right hand, “that when our people lie together, pleasure is the most important thing to give. I hope you’re good to Angrboda, the poor girl.”

Loki keeps his mouth tightly closed.

The jotun tilts his chin up with a finger and, once Loki holds his head still, barks something in her own language. Another girl comes forth, a small box tucked under her arm. “I sincerely hope you won’t be as much of a burden to Angrboda as others believe you will be. It is the least you can do, Asgardian.”

Loki finally responds with a low growl in his throat.

“Animal,” I hear Angrboda mutter from the other side of the room.

“Wench,” Loki bites back.

“Mind your tongue,” the jotun woman snaps, cuffing him around the ear.

Loki leers at her. He moves his left hand in front of him, and I only realise then he has something clutched in his fist. He takes it out, and I’m surprised to see a piece of fabric, perhaps a foot or so long. He ties it discreetly around his wrist as the second jotun woman takes a stick of kohl from her box and starts applying a layer to Loki’s eyes. Loki looks very purposely towards my hiding space.

His words seem to ring in my head again: _I need you to trust me_.

Several long minutes pass, and I watch the sun setting through the window. It never left the horizon, really, its bottom edge skimming a distant mountain range. Dusk, Loki had said. My hands itch with cold sweat when the sun starts to sink.

“Your Majesty!”

Unlike her son, Laufey breezes into the room. Her stride is one of a hunting cat’s, lazy, but full of grace and authority. She really is a striking sight now I can see her properly out of the dungeon’s poor light. She flicks her eyes over Loki and the servants around him, who have quickly scrambled into deep bows at her entrance, and then she turns her gaze on Angrboda. She clucks her tongue then. “Dear,” she says in such a patronising tone I flinch on Angrboda’s behalf, “I thought you knew better than that.”

I think it a wise idea that Angrboda keeps her tongue. She lows her head as Laufey-Queen towers over her, and she presses a finger into the skin of her black eye. “Asgardian weddings are grand things, I’ve been told,” she says. “And so I have made you grand. Or I have tried. Why did you do it, Grief Bringer?”

“Pardon my language, Majesty,” Angrboda says, “but you know damn well why.”

“You objection to this?” Laufey says with a soft laugh. “You should be kissing my fingers, but instead you spit on my generosity. I offer to end your banishment, I offer you a life of luxury, and you try to kill me? I was told you were bright, Angrboda. I am disappointed.”

“I do not want to be here, and you know that, _my queen_ ,” Angrboda spits.

“You would rather be squatting in your own filth in Járnviðr?”

“With a wolf at each breast, aye.”

“Tch. I had thought you civilised, Grief Bringer. I have heard such great things about my third cousins, but yet I find _this_. I am … _disappointed_.” She turns to Loki, who looks resolutely at the wall. “I have no time nor patience for rehearsal,” Laufey says. “You will mount the dais, exchange your vows, and you will consummate the union straight after.” She turns to leave.

Loki’s jaw twitches. His mouth opens. “Wait!”

The shout is so sudden the jotnar do, surprisingly, pause.

Loki’s shoulders shake as Laufey looks back at him, eyebrow raised in a perfect arch of cool disdain. “That is not how marriages come about,” he says. “If you are to confine me to this culture for the rest of my days, then so be it, but at least allow me one more lick of my old life. It would be poetic in a way — Æsir customs sealing my fate to jotun ones.”

“You scramble for scraps?” Laufey asks. “I have half a mind to refuse your request.”

“If you grant it,” Loki says, “I will be compliant … Mother.”

There is silence for a heartbeat. Laufey’s fingers drum against her arm, and I see the war being waged behind her eyes.

“As was said in the bargain,” Loki says, “I will do everything that you bid me without complaint if you give me this.” He looks at her, eyes wide and lip trembling — I have to commend him on his acting skills, so much so I begin to doubt after half a second whether or not his apparent nervousness is real. “Will you not grant me this, Mother? As a wedding gift? It’s good fortune to give gifts.”

Laufey sneers. “Very well. You may play all you wish at your Asgardian games and traditions, but you are a part of my court, now. Nothing will change that.”

Loki diverts his eyes again, and, descending to a knee, murmurs, “You are too kind, my queen.”

Laufey only snorts at his words. “Stop your stalling, half-breed. What is your tradition?”

Loki unwinds the binding cloth on his wrist and holds it out to her. “I will marry she who ties her wrist to mine. As is the custom of Asgard.”

“And that is …?” Laufey gestures to the cloth.

“Something that I found. Merely a cut-off.”

“You prove an oddly sentimental creature, my son,” Laufey says.

“I may be that,” Loki says. “Is this not a small enough ask?”

“Suspiciously small.” Laufey plucks the cloth from Loki’s hands and tears it to shreds. “You may have your tradition, Asgardian,” she says, threads pooling between her fingers, “but I will supply mine own things.”

I shrink away into the shadows. I know what I have to do. I push myself away from the wall and follow Laufey-Queen from the room.

When she steps outside, she snaps her fingers at one of the servants waiting in the corridor. “Find some cloth. An old sash or a cut-off. Find a cloth that is long enough to tie two wrists together. Put it with the other things.”

“Yes, my queen.”

I have to run after the servant when he jogs off to obey Laufey’s orders, the sounds of my footfalls disguised by his much louder ones. He ducks into one of the other rooms, talks quietly with another inside, and emerges half a minute later, a long piece of brown cloth in his palm. Then he sets off down the length of the corridor to the stairs and, letting out a breath, I follow.

I have an aching stitch in my side by the time the servant arrives at his destination by the courtyard. He stops by a side chamber near the main doors to the castle, which puts me more in mind of a broom cupboard than a proper room, and lets himself in. I step in behind him, walking on my toes and holding my breath to stay as silent as I can.

A small three-legged table is inside, and the servant curls the piece of cloth around his finger into a coil before he places it on a tray with a few other items — a stone goblet full of a drink I don’t recognise, what looks like an obsidian knife, and, my stomach clenches, two rings. I press myself against the wall as the servant leaves. Once he is gone, I walk to the table.

I had thought it would have been much harder to swap the cloths, but apparently the jotnar didn’t care to watch over wedding supplies they did not see the significance for, especially since Loki and Angrboda were under constant watch. Besides, who would want to steal them? There was no use for these things in their culture — now I am closer, the rings are obviously Æsir made. With my cloak pulled tightly around me, I roll up the binding cloth in my hands and switch it with the one on the tray. True, the cloths are not the same colour, but no one will know. And on the slight chance that someone will object, only two others will be able to protest.

Then I leave for the courtyard.

The sun has almost set by the time I come outside, and the courtyard is filling quickly. Jotnar stride into the space, talking amongst themselves as they mill around the dais. They leave an aisle in the middle of the courtyard. They do not stand in rows, merely clump together. Some venture over to the tables of food and drink, dipping cups into the stone bowls of drink and swigging it back cup after cup. I find the little niche I settled myself into the first time and stay as still as I can.

The time stretches out in a way that is agonising. I move and fidget restlessly, unable to stay still, and always uncomfortable.

 _It_ _’s my wedding day_ , I realise bluntly. I bark a laugh. Norns, this is ridiculous. I had once imagined my wedding to be something grand, something to which half the countryside turned up to. My dress would have been the most beautiful thing in the worlds, with an overly-long train that glistened with dew as I walked through the grass. But here I am, dirty, ragged, stuffed away, fearing for my life. I think of how I promised my mother as a girl that she would be at my wedding, as well as my father and all of my sisters. But they are hundreds, maybe even thousands, of miles away, unknowing of my situation. I pray that I will see them again. I have to.

 _We will get through this_.

The doors to the castle open, and talk stops at once. A silence hangs heavy over the jotnar as guards stride from the doors. Several take up residence on the dais, whilst the others widen the aisle.

It is now.

There is a procession at the castle doors, a dozen jotnar including the queen. She strides purposefully though the jotnar, climbing the dais steps and looking back towards the others. She wears a cloak of feathers, oil black and shimmering with a thousand rainbow colours, as if the garment had been drenched with water droplets and the sun shone through them all. She wears whole-finger rings on both hands, the tips extending into pure platinum claws. A heavy belt rests around her hips, decorated with scrollwork whose detail is so fine it can only be dwarven made.

The jotnar scream to the skies when Laufey takes her place, stamping their feet and clapping their hands with a storm-like frenzy. Laufey-Queen lets the noise be for several long seconds before she raises a finger; the noise peters off at once. Her smile is beacon-bright.

The procession now makes its way up the aisle, and I see Loki swallowed in the middle of it, the dusk light catching the gold of his costume. The sight manages to take even my breath away. I cannot deny that he makes a stunning sight, Angrboda too despite her injuries. Amongst the party too is the tray, including my binding cloth. The feeling of giddy excitement again returns. I have the urge to _move_ for the energy within me as the procession mounts the dais, Loki and Angrboda herded out of their midst to the centre, along with the servant holding the tray. I notice, relieved, that Loki’s brother is not there.

Laufey moves forward, picking up the obsidian knife and holding it high above her head. This must be some sort of jotun tradition, I think. Blades are not a feature of any wedding I have been to. I have to admit there is some kind of raw power at the sight of it as Laufey brings it down to the edge of her palm, nicking the skin there. She laps at the blood that wells, encouraging it to spread around her hand before she crosses to Angrboda and smears it over her forehead. A black mark stains her skin, and the gesture is repeated with Loki. He looks to barely tolerate it.

“And so they are blessed,” Laufey says.

“Blessed they are,” the crowd murmurs.

Laufey takes up the cup and gives it first to Angrboda, who takes a gulp of the liquid before spitting it on the ground, an action again repeated by Loki.

“And so they are cleansed.”

“Cleansed they are.”

“If this were a binding of our people’s traditions,” Laufey says to the crowd now, “then this would be the part when they were to conceive their child before us. But, alas, that will not happen today. Nor ever.” The crowd laughs, a cruel sound that hardens my heart. I have the want to stab Laufey’s eyes out — I have never been one for violent urges, and whenever I had them, they were things soon to subside. I am certain that if I were to blind the queen, I would not regret it for a second of my life to come. “Spearbreaker-Odin wanted his traditions,” Laufey continues, “and so he will have them. Call me not an oathbreaker.” She holds her hand out.

The servant places the binding cloth into her hand, and when Loki reaches for it, Laufey tips it from her hand. It slides heavily to the ground, and there are more titters from the crowd. It was a petty thing, and I start to consider how fast I could spring from my place and run up to Laufey to exercise my frustration and hate of her as Loki bends down. When he straightens up and puts his hand out for Angrboda’s, Laufey interrupts again.

“I have spotted a slight problem,” she says. “It seems that … well, such a thing needs to be something in which the participants are of a height. Kneel, Angrboda. I’m sure my son would be grateful.”

If mere looks could kill, Angrboda would have murdered at least three dozen in that instant. The guards shift their weights behind her before she sinks to her knees, putting her hand heavily in Loki’s. Her actions are so full of loathing I’m surprised Loki doesn’t combust before her. Loki doesn’t look at her face. His own is tight as he wraps the binding cloth three times around their wrists. I can see last second doubts flicker through his mind; they prompt my own: What if Loki was wrong? What if he was mistaken in what the runes meant, and this cloth will bind anyone it touches permanently with a soul bond released only by death? Norns, he has to be right.

“You cannot possess me for I belong to myself,” they say in unison, “but while we both wish it, I give you that which is mine to give.”

The oath, easily over twelve lines long, seems to be over quickly, no matter how stiffly it is recited. Angrboda and Loki take an end of the binding cloth, and I turn away, my heart like thunder in my ears. I can’t bear to watch. Can’t bear my heart being torn in two.

“What is this?” Angrboda demands.

I crack open an eye and peek around. What it is that the cloth with not tie together. It keeps falling into two separate ends, unbound like open laces. My heart is in my mouth. “What _is_ this?” she repeats, and I am sure I’m not imagining the creeping relief in her voice.

“I …,” Loki says, eyes wide in evident confusion.

Laufey frowns. Loki tries to tie the knot again, but again, the cloth just … won’t. Laufey stands, and she grabs each end of the cloth, trying to tie it together herself. I laugh under my breath at her hiss of confusion.

“You!” she snarls at Loki, her bravado suddenly gone. “What have you done?”

“Nothing,” Loki gasps. “I swear.” That’s true enough — I brought the cloth here, I replaced it. Loki is technically innocent.

“And you?” Laufey asks Angrboda.

“I have done nothing, my queen,” she whispers. “I don’t know what’s happening….”

Laufey attempts to tie it once more time, and, with a screech of frustration, grabs Angrboda by her collar and throws her down the dais. “You,” she spits at Angrboda, “get out of my sight. You —” she points at another highborn girl, “— come here.”

The girl climbs the dais steps.

She grasps Loki’s hand, and they repeat the oaths. The cloth refuses to knot again. Laufey throws the girl away.

At Laufey’s bidding, jotun women stream forward, each grasping hands with Loki and each saying their vows, but each time, the cloth refuses to knot. Soon, I think, Laufey will run out of suitable nobleborn women to whom she can pair with Loki. Soon, she will have to pick from the common people, or even pick those with whom it would be a political disadvantage to marry Loki too.

“Another cloth!” she bellows. “Bring me another one.”

“All you have chosen have failed!” Loki calls over the top of her. She is struck dumb, looking at him with incredulity; her eyes pop. “You, Laufey-Queen, cannot find a fit match to be my bride,” he continues. “Perhaps I can do better.” His eyes glint. “Sigyn.”

I take a breath before I step out of my hiding place and into the aisle. I lower my hood, and undo the clasp of my cloak. Voices rise within the crowd as I approach the dais, and it is satisfying to see Laufey-Queen’s face pale, to see the moment of realisation that a small promise meant to mock is quickly leading to an out-of-hand situation.

Growls fill the air, as does the scrape of enchanted ice as weapons are summoned. “Asynja,” the crowd hisses.

“Get her out of here,” Laufey says softly. A hand has crept to Loki’s neck, and her claws prick his skin. “No … kill her.”

I freeze on the dais steps as the guards aim icy spears for me.

“Hold to your oath, Laufey-Queen,” Loki says loudly, his own hand gripped tight around Laufey’s wrist. “Let her try.”

Laufey grits her teeth and, after several long seconds, releases him, stepping back. I can feel her eyes boring into me.

I start forward again, trembling so badly Loki has to grasp my hand when I mount the dais. His, I find is surprisingly steady as he coaxes my glove off. The cold air bites into my skin.

“Hold to your oath, Mother,” Loki says again, not breaking eye contact with me. I take a breath to calm myself. “Hold to it….” He takes the binding cloth in his free hand and wraps it thrice around our wrists — as far as Angrboda got, as far as everyone else.

 _I want this_ , I think as hard as I can, willing the cloth’s innate magic to hear me. _Please. I love him, and he loves me. I want to take him for my husband._

“Are you afraid?” Loki asks, an echo of the start of this journey.

And for a second time I say, “No.” I tighten my grip on his hand, forcing my shoulders to relax. Our mouths open at the same time, and we say the oath together:

 

_You cannot possess me for I belong to myself,_

_But while we both wish it, I give you that which is mine to give._

_You cannot command me, for I am a free person,_

_But I shall serve you in those ways you require,_

_And the honeycomb will taste sweeter coming from my hand._

_I pledge to you that yours will be the name I cry aloud in the night,_

_And the eyes into which I smile in the morning._

_I pledge to you the first bite from my meat,_

_And the first drink from my cup._

_I pledge to you my living and dying, equally in your care,_

_And tell no strangers our grievances._

_This is my wedding vow to you._

_This is a marriage of equals._

 

 And then Loki, so softly that I am the only one to hear him, says, “I love you.”

We each clasp one end of the binding cloth and pull the knot tight. The runes shimmer and then sink into our skin — they are little bites of heat as they embed themselves. Silence hangs over the crowd, but I have no eyes for them. All I see is Loki. He gives my hand a little squeeze.

But as the runelight dies, two things happen.

The first is that the bindrune’s power snaps with the sound of a whip crack.

The second is that all Hel breaks loose.

Laufey screams in outrage, a horrible, ear splitting shriek of utter fury, and Loki dives for me, bringing me into his embrace to shield me from his mother’s wrath. He roars when her claws sink into his flesh as she tries to rip him away from me. When she pulls her arm back to strike again, Loki moves, tearing our wrists apart with a burst of magic, and the binding cloth falls to the ground in smoking tatters. Green fire flares to life in Loki’s hands as he tackles the queen. He is half her size, but it makes no difference to him. He is a maelstrom, hitting and kicking and biting and clawing at her, desperate to wound. Burns darken Laufey’s skin, but she is not helpless. She rakes her claws down Loki’s back as they tumble over and over, the pair of them snapping and snarling like fighting wolves. Black blood spatters the ice. It is terrible to watch, and the only thing I can do is crawl away to safety — I am no warrior, and fighting would only bring my death.

“There’s the asynja slut!”

I scream as a huge hand clamps around my calf, and I fall on my front, biting my tongue. The taste of blood fills my mouth as I am dragged backwards. I thrash, kicking and writhing in an attempt to get the frost giant holding me to release my leg, but it is like holding the tide back. I am too small, far weaker than my captor, untrained in battle.

“ _Sigyn!_ ”

I see Loki, covered in blood, charge towards me from the corner of my eye. I reach for him just as he is knocked flat by a blow from Laufey. Her nose is bloody, as is the side of her head, and deep wounds litter her front. She steps on Loki’s back, and he cries out in pain. My heart breaks for him; I wish for nothing but to run to him. That is all I see before I am lifted into the air, dangling upside-down from the fist of a frost giant warrior.

“Is she really so special to you?” Laufey breathes into Loki’s ear.

Loki spits and snarls, clawing at her leg.

Laufey only chuckles low in her throat. “It is the things we love the most that hurt us most dearly,” she says to Loki. “I want you to hurt, _Asgardian_. You may look like one of the Children of Ice, but like everything you are, that is nothing more than a lie.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Loki replies through his teeth.

Laufey punches Loki hard in the side of the head. The ice cracks beneath his skull — a testament to how hard the blow was. Tears slip into my hair as I renew my struggles, squirming and screaming my defiance.

“Don’t you talk back to me,” Laufey snaps. “Do so again, and my next blow will land upon your asynja bitch.”

I can only imagine that Loki’s retort dies on his tongue, for he is quiet, covered in blood, trembling beneath his mother’s weight. He can barely breathe for the pressure, for they come in short, harsh pants.

“I’m sorry,” Loki says … Loki begs. “I’m sorry, Mother. I’m sorry. Please, my queen, my mother, I am sorry….”

My lip trembles. Loki never admits his mistakes, and to see him do so now invites fear to engulf me. I let out another sob, quieter than my first, but Laufey looks around the sound.

She smirks. I cannot help but notice again that it is Loki’s smirk she wears. “‘Sorry’ will change nothing,” she says. “Sorry is a nothing word. Sorries will fix _nothing_.” She licks at her split lip and smiles before waving a hand towards the giant holding me.

Pain explodes in my calf as frostbite consumes my flesh. The worst of it is protected by my trousers, but I am not used to pain, have no tolerance for it. I scream.

“ _SIGYN!_ ”

“Hush now, my son,” Laufey whispers, crouching down and grabbing Loki by the hair. She forces his head up, and his eyes find mine. I am limp with shock, shivering with the cold and pain. “This is the way of Jotunheim. We learn from our mistakes. ‘Sorry’ is not a word that is tolerated here, and the quicker you learn that, the easier you will settle into your new home.” Laufey digs her heel into Loki’s lower back, and he whines in pain — it is a pain that must be terrible for him. “Perhaps it is a blessing from the Mother Storm that your asynja slut has found her way here. She can provide the incentive you obviously need. Learn well, and learn fast, and the less she’ll be hurt. And maybe I’ll let you bed her sometimes. I know how much you enjoyed doing so last night.”

Despite my current position, the blood drains from my face. It feels that way, anyhow.

“Oh yes,” Laufey gloats. “It does not take much effort to figure it out now: the cell _stank_ of sex. Nothing happens here that I do not know of.”

“S’not true,” Loki pants. “Tricked you.”

A terrible scream is ripped from him when Laufey leans almost all of her weight on his lower back. He claws at the dirt and snow, leaving deep marks in the stone floor, and tears prick his eyes.

“Do not tempt me to break you,” Laufey says. “I do not need you whole to fulfil my purposes.” She traces her way up his spine, and rests her claws at the back of his neck. “But … perhaps that would be a fine idea. I could cripple your hands, my son, paralyse you, even — all I need is your existence.”

“Don’t,” Loki gasps. “Don’t….”

Laufey sneers. “But you are mine, Loki. You will obey —”

“Laufey-Queen.”

My heart is pounding against my ribs so hard they ache, and I try to see the new speaker from the corner of my eye. I recognise the voice, for it was the voice that I heard what seems like years ago in the castle. The one Loki was talking to when I found him in his chambers. The one Loki had indirectly said was his father.

Odin Allfather is just as intimidating to look upon as Laufey, but where Laufey is icy, cold and aloof, the Allfather is one who exudes trust. His armour is one of the most splendid things I have seen — golden, grand, and battle-worn. In his hand is the spear Gungnir, long enough to touch the ground despite the fact the Allfather is astride the biggest charger I have ever laid my eyes upon. Even as I dangle upside-down, the very sight of Sleipnir shoots chills of awe through me. The stories have not exaggerated his magnificence, nor the fire in his eyes. They seem to shine with inner light, and the both of them crackle with magic.

“Father …,” I see Loki mouth weakly beneath Laufey. He shouts, squirming to get free, but Laufey only puts more of her weight on him; she nearly stands on him, now.

The Allfather says in a low voice, “Release my son, Laufey-Queen.”

Laufey only laughs. “He is mine,” she says, grinding the balls of her toes into his skin to emphasise her point. “You know what we agreed to as well as I do. He lost the game, and so he is under my rule and command.”

“The bindrune is broken,” the Allfather says. “He has won. _I_ have won.”

“Perhaps,” Laufey muses, “but he swore to obey me. I gave him what he wanted, and in return he swore his loyalty.”

“She’s lying!” I shout. “She’s —” I cry out again as the cold bites into my leg. Norns, it’ll kill me, I’ll —

And then a bellow, and I’m falling; icy blood spatters my face. The frost giant has been thrown back, releasing me from his grip. But before I can hit the ground, arms fold around me, shielding me. My first thought is that it’s Loki who’s caught me, but the man is too muscular to be Loki, much too warm as well. He smells different too: like old leather and dirt, like sweat and oil, and like the air before a storm.

“Are you alright?” he asks me, and I nod weakly. He puts me on my feet, holding out a hand. I hear something flying through the air, a single, undulating metallic note of song before it slaps into his palm. I only dare look up into his face now.

Prince Thor Odinson is Loki’s polar opposite. Where Loki is dark, Thor is light, his hair and scruff gold like the wheat fields by my family’s farm, his skin tanned, and his eyes an almost startling blue. He’s one of the handsomest men I’ve ever seen; I can feel my face burning when he gives me a reassuring smile. “I suppose you’re my sister now,” he says. “I’m pleased to meet you.” His smile has the effect of letting me forget where I am, that I’m hurt and my leg is in terrible pain, but I can’t help but nod. He has an infectious air of warmth and safety about him. But I can’t rest now. Not until everything is right.

“Help him,” I say, grabbing at his shoulder. “Please, help him.”

Help Loki.

Thor nods before he swings Mjölnir in his grip just as Odin strikes at Laufey. I have to avert my eyes when Gungnir flashes with light so bright the image burns itself into my retina. When I next look up, there are several jotnar dead upon the floor, evidently having taken the blow from the spear meant for their queen. More charge towards Thor, and he cracks two of them in the chest with the warhammer, tossing them away with sickening sounds of impact. The Allfather jabs Sleipnir in his sides, and the horse leaps forward, his neigh ringing like a bell. Loki is kicked away as Laufey summons a huge blade of ice: a great sweeping motion of her arm which she then throws her weight behind at the Allfather. The resulting _clang_ makes my teeth rattle, and even Thor is distracted for a heartbeat, whipping around to watch.

The blows Laufey and the Allfather exchange are blurringly fast. Sleipnir dances around, guided by the lightest of touches from Odin’s heels as he fights bitterly with Laufey. Laufey’s own face is twisted into an ugly snarl, and when they disengage, she tears her cloak away.

“You’re still quite the opponent,” she says, eyes glinting. If I survive this, I know the very sight of her will not leave me be for years to come. “But you fight a meaningless battle, Allfather. He is mine. I carried him in my body, he is mine.”

“And what is it you would damn him to if he was yours?” Odin asks. “Would you only present him as a trophy? Use him as a tool to gloat over your victory?”

“I would expose you, One-Eye,” Laufey spits. “I would bring your kingdom crashing down.”

Odin slams his heels into Sleipnir’s sides, and the grey charger leaps high. “He is Odinson!” the Allfather shouts down at Laufey as he raises Gungnir for a killing blow. “Not your toy!”

Laufey readies her blade, but the Allfather throws Gungnir at her, hard. She screeches as the spear slices along her chest, falling to the ground in a splatter of blood as Sleipnir lands with a crash. She has landed near Loki, and as she begins to pick herself up, Loki snarls. Odin is turning Sleipnir about for another charge, but Loki acts first. He darts forward as Laufey rises to her feet, fire igniting in his hands. He clamps his hands around Laufey’s leg, and she tries to leap away with a howl. Her skin has melted, and she stumbles back, barely able to put weight on her injured leg.

“Loki, no!” the Allfather shouts, Gungnir flying back to his hand. “Do not!”

But Loki ignores him. He digs his claws into Laufey’s flesh, jumping once up her body like he would up Blíðýr’s side to his saddle. Laufey tries to pry him off of her, but he is quick, avoiding her grasping hands. Loki lands in a crouch on her shoulders and seizes her head, the tar in her hair catching alight. And with a howl of primal, heartaching rage and pain, he twists. The following _crunch-CRACK!_ echoes throughout the courtyard, and the queen drops to the floor as limp as a doll. Her head is twisted around to the very back of her neck, her expression still distorted into a thing of horror; I want to throw up at the sight of how _wrong_ it looks.

Loki lands in a ungraceful tumble, rolling to a stop in a slump. After a few moments, he groans, trying to push himself upright, only to collapse again with a bitten back screech of pain. I think his ribs are broken, for he holds his chest, ginger.

The Allfather hesitates for a split second before he turns Sleipnir to the crowd of jotnar and charges to them and into the castle. But I rush to Loki, slipping on the ice and snow and cursing my injured leg before I fall to my knees beside him. “Loki!”

“You’re hurt,” he says sharply, staring at me through watering eyes. He pulls me close.

“Loki, your ribs.”

“I’ll live,” he says with a grimace.

“Brother.”

I look up sharply. Prince Thor strides towards us, Mjölnir gripped tightly in his fist. I shift a little to the side so he may see Loki.

“Thor —” Loki is frozen, his eyes wide as he looks up at Thor. He is like a rabbit caught in torchlight, wondering whether to flee or stay. Thor hesitates too, looking Loki up and down. His empty hand clenches on air by his side. “Thor …,” Loki says again, his voice barely a whisper. He turns his head away and curls tightly on himself, as if he were trying to hide nakedness. “Please don’t … don’t look at me….”

Thor shifts his foot, and he swallows visibly. “Loki….”

And then he drops Mjölnir and falls to his knees, embracing Loki. Loki’s eyes widened impossibly more, his bottom lip trembling in shock, but then something gives way, his eyes closing as he buries his face into Thor’s shoulder. They grip onto each other like lifelines, like the other is the only thing in the realms that matters, and only then do I finally understand what fierce a love there is between them. Of course I have heard of it in the past, lifted from a memory that is no longer muddled by the bindrune’s enchantment, and all I can think of is how much Loki deserves something like this.

“My brother,” I hear Thor murmur as he cups the back of Loki’s head. “My brother….”

Loki offers no words in reply, but I know from experience his silence speaks just as loudly. He breathes deeply, eyes squeezed shut, and his shoulders shake with raw emotion. “Thor …,” he finally mumbles, pulling him even closer. “I … I’m sorry … I’m sorry….” He sounds close to weeping.

“Shh….” When Thor tightens his grip in return, Loki lets out a small noise of complaint, and the prince lets go immediately. His huge hands are surprisingly gentle when he handles Loki’s ribs, mapping out his injuries. Loki’s lip lifts a little in protest, but he is too hurt, and too relieved, to object to the prince’s treatment. He holds onto Thor’s upper arms for support, his legs shaking as they stand.

“Four ribs are broken by my guess,” Thor says after a few seconds, “maybe five. Father can help you —”

Loki stiffens, and a hiss sounds from his throat. “I do not need the Allfather’s charity.”

“You’re not well,” Thor says. “You need help.”

Loki finally pushes the prince away. “I don’t want his help, nor do I need it,” he snaps.

Thor looks lost. “Loki, please don’t be like this. I haven’t seen you for over a decade, and I —” He falls silent, unable to get the next words out. “I don’t want it to be like it was when I last saw you. I don’t want to fight you.”

Loki is still stiff, and he hugs himself, turning away. “I don’t want to see him,” he says quietly. “Promise me.”

“Your injuries —”

“Promise me, Thor.” Loki eyes are a burning garnet as he fixes his brother with them.

“Not today,” Thor says finally. “When … _if_ you’re ever ready.”

Loki sags in relief. “I need to … I need to leave before he comes back.”

Thor nods his agreement.

I step towards him. “Loki …”

But Loki gives a minute shake of his head, one arm snaking out around my shoulders before he leans his forehead against mine. His fingers rest in the soft spot at the back of my neck, digging in, but not painfully so. And then, he shudders. I watch in amazement as his skin changes colour, paling to an almost alabaster white. His teeth flatten, the lines on his skin press themselves back into his flesh. He inhales sharply, mouth opening in a perfect ‘O’ of wonderment.

“The cold,” he says almost to himself. “Norns … it’s been so long….” He gives a shuddering laugh.

I only notice now that the surviving frost giants are completely silent. There was no roar of outrage from the masses upon Laufey’s death. No promises of revenge, no charge, no nothing. It scares me. But Thor stands over us, looking at the giants with a promise of retribution in his eyes if they dare to move to attack us. I feel safe in his shadow.

“Kinslayer,” one spits at Loki. The mass of them seems to still as we turn our attention to them.

“It is you who will be slain if you do not close your mouth, giant,” Thor says dangerously. “The snow is already stained black with jotun blood, so what is a little more? Do not test me.”

Loki cracks a laugh. “I thought … thought that you’re supposed to have changed.”

“Is there any higher honour than protecting my family?” Thor asks. “Now come. You’re hurt. The both of you.”

Thor pulls Loki to his feet, and he stands, ginger, as Thor pulls me to mine. I have to lean on him as we exit the courtyard, my leg shaky and almost collapsing whenever I put weight on it. I am thoroughly glad to be putting the castle behind us. The jotnar leave a path for us, hissing and spitting. Dark murmurs also run amongst them: _kinslayer_ , _runt_ , _whelp_ , _Laufey-bane_ , _Asgardian_ , _may the Mother Storm take you_. Though the insults are meant for Loki, they hurt all of us. By the time we exit the courtyard, Loki’s shoulders are slumped, and he quakes from more than the cold.

“What’s going to happen now?” I ask in an effort to distract everyone. “What’s going to happen to Jotunheim?”

“The throne will go to Helblindi,” Loki says lowly, wincing. He moves his hand on his ribs. “He’ll swear his loyalty to the Allfather, and more than likely an ambassador will be permanently stationed here.” The unspoken fear of _most likely me_ hangs heavy in the silence. “Laufey-Queen’s body may be hung on the wall before it’s buried, too,” he continues. Then he bares his teeth in a satisfied smile. “Norns, I’d like to see that.”

I want to protest, because no matter what she was like, she was Loki’s _mother_ , and such vindictive pleasure feels wrong, but I bite my tongue. There is a time and place to say such things, and there is a desire within me to see such a sight, too.

When we reach the edge of the castle’s grounds, Loki pauses and turns his head towards a huge building. His eyes narrow, and he murmurs, “Wait,” before he sets off at a limp.

“Brother,” Thor says, but Loki says over his shoulder in reply, “I’ll be quick.”

Thor’s forced to stay, because I can’t stand on my own. There’s a deeply troubled look in his eye as the minutes tick past and Loki doesn’t come back. I’m too nervous to say anything, and I think Thor is, too. But then a muffled roar comes from the building, and my heart jumps, my feet moving forward before I can stop myself. The doors open, and Loki reemerges. He isn’t alone. He sits astride a fully grown ísverur, a battle-scarred, crimson-eyed beast who fights against the bit in its mouth. But Loki has a firm hold on it, magic shining in his fingers as it loops around the creature’s head and tusks. It whines, grunts like a pig, before it begins to settle. Loki makes that clucking sound under his tongue again, and the ísverur starts forward, drawing alongside us.

“I said I’d be quick,” Loki says. The ísverur settles down with an earth-resounding _thump_ , and Loki flicks his hair from his eyes. “Coming?”

“I can’t climb up that high,” I say. “Where are you planning on going?”

“There’s a necropolis outside the walls,” Loki said. “There’s shelter there. I’m not staying here a minute more than I have to.”

“Where did you …?” I ask, my mouth dry as I hobble over with Thor’s help.

Loki’s lip curls as he holds his hand out from me. Thor has to give me a lift high enough so I can grab it. “He’s Laufey’s,” Loki says, patting the _ísverur_ firmly on the top of its skull. “It’s fitting, no?”

I can only think Loki’s far too sentimental and petty, but it’s still amusing. _Idiot_ , I think as Thor mounts, but it’s a fond thought.

Loki guides the beast towards the city walls with an expert hand and flicks the reins. The ísverur bounds off at a greater pace than even Blíðýr’s fastest sprint. Jotnar move out of the way as we ride through the town, and some shriek at our backs like carrion birds. They are ignored. I half expect the gates to be firmly closed when we get to them, but they are flung wide, as if the guards can’t wait to be rid of us. Perhaps they truly can’t, I muse as we shoot through the barbican, cinching my arms tightly around Loki’s waist and leaning against his back.

The road opens before us, winding on towards the ever-so distant _home_ , but we don’t go there. Loki guides the ísverur further and further out, before he turns down an off-shooting road in the direction of several high hills of snow. The road goes between the middle of two hills, and they seem much bigger up close. The air is deathly cold as we passed between them, but, mercifully, it only lasts a few seconds.

The north lights cast a soft glow on the scene before us: hundreds of smaller burial mounds nestled between the natural valley drip of several hills. Loki guides the ísverur through them, following a path he seems to know well. After a few minutes, we come to the heart of the valley. The open space is enough for the ísverur and several others to romp around in, and closer to the edge of the space is a lean-too shack — being built to jotun proportions, it is bigger than my old farm house. Loki steers the ísverur to the front and taps its shoulder twice. It settles on the ground, and Thor jumps off, helping first me and then Loki down. The both of us can’t help but wince when he hit the ground.

“You have healing stones?” Loki asks him.

“Aye, but not enough for your ribs,” Thor says.

“Are there enough for Sigyn?” Loki says.

“More than.”

“She will be healed first.”

“Loki,” I protest, “Yours are worse —”

“You call that degree of frostburn worse than broken ribs?” Loki asks. “That is enough for amputation for those who can’t afford healing stones.”

We file into the shack, and I’m surprised to see an Æsir sized mattress inside, big enough for four or five people to squeeze onto.

“Lie down,” Loki says gently. I do as he says as Thor flips open a pouch on his belt, handing Loki several cloth wrapped stones. Loki kneels next to me, unwrapping one of the stones and lifting away what remains of my trouser fabric. The entirety of the lower leg has been burnt, and my skin is almost black and looks like cracked glaze. I whimper when Loki puts the stone against my calf, my hands jerking in an instinctive urge to remove the pain. “Hold still,” Loki says.

The stone breaks in his hand, and I groan as the ache of the frostbite is drawn from my leg, and new skin begins to appear. “What is this place?” I rasp, relief flooding through me as Loki moves further down my leg. The stone leaves an blazingly warm trail behind.

“This used to be one of my refuges,” he says. “Who would look for a prince of Asgard so close to the stronghold of the enemy?”

“Wouldn’t it be seen?”

“No. It was rundown when I found it, so when I repaired it, I wove enchantments of protection into the boards. We won’t be disturbed.”

He continues to work, and soon, all there is left is a dark, bruise-like mark. It is tender like one also, and I prod at it gently.

“Don’t do that,” Loki murmurs, catching my wrist. “Leave it be.” Then he brings my knuckles to his lips, merely holding them there.

“Thank you,” I whisper, brushing the fingers of my free hand down his face.

“No, Sigyn,” he says. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you. Angrboda would be my wife now.”

“I hope she’ll be alright,” I say. I’m concerned for her; I didn’t see her during the fight, and I can only pray she’s unhurt.

“She’ll be alright,” Loki says. “She’ll go back to her family in Járnvithr.”

I hum my understanding. “Your turn,” I say, gesturing to the remaining stones.

With Thor’s instruction, I begin to heal Loki. Thor was right when he said he didn’t have enough stones to properly heal Loki’s ribs, so Loki holds his torso stiff with a spell and traces a healing sigil to his skin, where it glows bright white before sinking in.

“I’ll be fine in a few days,” he says when I ask about it. “Healing stones are much faster, and more effective, but the sigil is adequate first aid.”

We sit in silence for a while, and Thor takes his cape from his shoulders, striding over to Loki and wrapping him firmly in it. Loki doesn’t say thank you, but he burrows into it when Thor turns away. He starts to take the gold from his body as well, sliding first the armbands and bracelets off, and then gingerly taking the metal from his ears. He drops them all into a pile in the centre of the room before burning them with a flick of the wrist. “Warm yourselves,” Loki says to us.

Thor lifts his head at something outside, and he goes to the door. He opens it for a few seconds before closing it behind him. He swallows. “Father wishes to see you,” he says. “He’s outside.”

“I do not wish it,” Loki retorts, not budging an inch.

“I know,” Thor replies. “I’ll talk to him. Stay here.” He leaves.

Loki and I sit awkwardly for some minutes, watching the fire, and listening silently to the muffled voices outside. I fidget, and Loki begins bouncing his leg.

“Father,” I hear Thor say, but he is cut off:

“I would see him, Thor.”

“He doesn’t —”

“Let me in.”

“I swore an oath —”

“As did I. As your father and king, I order you to stand aside!”

Loki jumps up and back when Odin comes in, banishing the fire at the same instant to plunge the room into shadow. I duck my head to the Allfather at once, but Loki says, “Don’t, Sigyn. Lift your head.”

I’m torn for a few seconds, but I take the third option, standing and, with a murmur of, “Majesty,” cross to the far side of the shack.

“Loki?” the Allfather asks.

“Get out,” Loki whispers hatefully. A ripple of cold goes through the hut, and I do not miss Odin’s shiver. “Was Thor not clear enough? I don’t want to talk to you.”

“We must talk, Loki,” the Allfather says. “I can’t stay silent.”

“Speak your words, then.”

“I would see you.”

There is a hesitant second, but then Loki, jotun, slides from the shadows. He stands tall, his chin jutted out, and Thor’s cape is no longer around his shoulders. “Father,” he says flatly.

“Loki.”

The exchange is so business-like I do not know what to say, or what to do.

“Well?” Loki says. “Get on with it. What do you want?”

“I want to talk with my son.”

Loki holds a hand up to point at Odin accusingly, and his eyes burn. “Don’t you _dare_ call me your son,” he says, voice gravelly. “Not after everything you’ve done to me.”

“It wounds me that you say that.”

“Oh does it? Well then, pardon me, for my words were spoken in ignorance to your true thoughts,” Loki says. “I drew conclusions from your actions against me for the past eleven years, and all the years before that. Should I not have jumped to so hasty a conclusion? One in which you think nothing of me except how much of a liability I am in the world of politics?”

Odin reaches out his hand to lay it on Loki’s shoulder, but Loki grabs it, holding it tight. The Allfather’s skin begins to pale with the cold as Loki’s body temperature drops.

“Don’t touch me,” Loki hisses, throwing Odin’s hand away as if it is something poisonous. “Don’t you even talk —”

“Loki.” The patience in Odin’s voice forces Loki to fall silent, and I suddenly think of how weary the king looks … how old he is. I have difficultly seeing the man I saw charging down Laufey. “I don’t expect forgiveness from you,” he says. “Perhaps not ever — you were always one to hold fast to your negative emotions.”

“All to match my charmingly negative personality,” Loki bites back.

“But I want you to know that I did all I could to ensure that you would be safe, and that you would return to me — to us.” The Allfather looks to Prince Thor. “Loki, I love you, and I wish you to know that deep in your heart. Have I been a terrible father to you? Yes, I have, and I am so deeply sorry for the hurt I have inflicted on you.”

Loki laughs derisively. “You were _that_ confident that I would forgive you enough to ‘return’ to you? Why would you want me back? What could you offer me?”

“I’d rather hoped the reason for mine, your mother’s — your _true_ mother; the mother you have known all your life and who raised you from the crib — and your brother’s wanting you back would be clear enough that I wouldn’t need to spell it out to you: we love you, and we wish for you to return. As to what I can offer … well. Everything can be put back into order as it once was. Your chambers unsealed, your titles restored, and your privileges returned. You will be a prince of Asgard once more, and the girl may too come.”

Loki stares at his father, shock plain on his face. This is everything that he has wanted: to be free of his predicament and return to his old life. Asgard. I will be going to Asgard proper. I wait for the hammer to fall.

“Why would you think that I would want to go back to Asgard, to Valaskjalf?” Loki’s voice is incredulous, and, if I am not mistaken, a hint of anger colours it. I stare at him, utterly bewildered at his reaction. “After everything that’s happened, you expect me to just … just step back into my old life? Then you’re a fool.”

“No,” Odin says, a deep sadness crossing his face, “merely optimistic.”

“Then your optimism arises from misunderstanding,” Loki spits, livid. “You can’t begin to fathom what I’m feeling, what I’ve felt over the past eleven years. Your secrets and lies and manipulations have damaged me — deeply. Liar and Silvertongue I may be, but I’m tired of living behind lies. I think you’ll be glad that your half-bred progeny won’t be in the courts; after all, what a politic _nightmare_ my very existence must cause. I am the living, breathing proof that the line of Buri has sullied itself with jotun blood. And I know you and the system. You say Sigyn can come, and to be what? You certainly won’t let us remain married, and she will be demoted to nothing but my mistress — you would never let your jotun chess piece settle with a commoner. I refuse to condemn her to something like that.”

Odin is quiet for a moment, looking at his furious child before asking, “Then where will you go?”

Loki’s ruby eyes bore into Odin’s single grey one. “Somewhere that you can touch neither Sigyn nor myself. And know that if I see you again,” he fumes, “I will kill you. I swear it. I have already proved capable of committing parricide.”

“So be it.” The resignation in Odin’s voice is what frightens me the most.

If Loki is as shocked as I am at his father’s passive acceptance, he does not show it. “Sigyn, we’re leaving.”

He crosses to me, fingers closing around mine, and he tugs me gently towards the door; I stop only to pick Thor’s cape up from the floor. When it shuts, he lets me go. Sleipnir stands quietly outside, his shining coat splattered with jotun blood, and the ísverur lays on its side, batting at something in front of its nose like an overgrown cat. Loki walks towards the ísverur before, when he almost reaches it, he slumps forward in the snow, burying his head in his hands as his shoulders shake.

“Loki …?” At first I think fury still grips him, that his reaction comes from anger so great he can’t bear the weight of it, so it’s surprising when I hear a choking, broken gasp. I see a tear drip from his nose, melting a little hole into the snow just as another falls. I had expected him to be full of wrath given his utter conviction inside the shack, but this … I hardly know what to think. Loki, who killed his mother without a second’s thought, has finally broken down. I wonder if he feels now the force of eleven years worth of anguish and torment battering at him in this moment. I wonder how such betrayal and fear and hurt can be restricted to two tears. I wonder how damaged he truly is.

“I’m sorry,” Loki says to me now, a hiccup in his throat. “I-I’m a mess, I know…. I want to go back to Asgard, I want it so much … but I can’t go back. I can’t have everything slip through my fingers again. I can’t lose you.”

“You won’t lose me,” I say, kneeling before him and wrapping Thor’s cape around his shoulders like a blanket. “Unless you do something incredibly stupid, granted, but you won’t.” _I hope._ “Hey now….” I slip my hand under the cape to touch his bare shoulder, rubbing circles with the tips of my fingers over his rough skin — he hasn’t changed his form yet.

“He wanted to turn you into some sort of concubine,” he says hoarsely. “H-he wanted to control me again; he’s no better than her.” But the heartbreak is so evident in his voice I feel tears wet my own eyes. There is an ache in my chest, a powerful one that threatens to strangle me with its painful grip. “Are you the only good thing I am allowed? Or will you go, too?”

“No,” I murmur, taking his head in my hands. “Your brother loves you, as does your wife. We always will, and there will be more to come, and for that, we will never leave you.” I leave a kiss on the top of his head, something that is long and lingering better suited to romantic plays that real life, but I need him to understand. I need him to know that I am here, that I will always be here for him, that I love him; a quick touch of lips will do nothing.

The fingers of his left hand slide around my wrist, curling into a gentle hold, whilst his right brushes as gently as a feather over my cheekbone. “I am lucky,” he says.

“That you are,” I reply. “And I would repeat it a hundred thousand times if need be, but I need to find some place warm.” I am truly, truly sick of the snow. Images of stretches of golden sands and oceans drenched in summer sun fill my mind’s eye; they’re enticing ones. I will need to spend those hundred thousand years spilling my thoughts there, I am certain.

Loki laughs, and we rise to our feet as one, still face to face, still touching each other’s skin. “And lucky for you,” he says, “I am quite warm.” The wash of his Æsir appearance is taking him over, and he runs the pad of his thumb over my cheek once more before he turns to face the _ísverur_. “Come.”

He kicks the beast awake — I have no doubt it’s more so a gentle poke in its side given its size — and the thing stirs. It stands, shaking the ice from its hide like a dog would to rid its coat of water, before it settles on its belly, looking at us expectantly. It really is much taller than Blíðýr was. Loki cups his hands together in a step, hoisting me up before he follows behind me with practised ease. The _ísverur_ hauls itself up as Loki begins to settle himself into the saddle, leaning over my back and wrapping Thor’s cape around the both of us. He takes up the reins. “Hah!”

The _ísverur_ runs like a horse from the gates. It flies from between the hills, skidding around on the main road to face south before loping away. Utgard shrinks behind us, and I think of the night I left my farm. I am in the same position as I was then: pressed against Loki’s chest as we ride atop a Jotunheim beast. But this time, it is the truth when I say that I am not afraid. How could I be afraid when I had faced the queen of the frost giants and lived?

“We’ve a long way to go,” Loki says in my ear. “Sleep, Sigyn.”

“Not this time,” I say, looking him in the eye. “This time, I want to see everything.”

And as we run, I do.


	10. Epilogue

In my mind, all stories are split into two parts: the parts that are told to the masses, that are recited at the long tables in feasting halls and in taverns, and that are told around the fire on the dark winter nights, and the parts that no one mentions, the left out elements, the parts that lay forgotten. The forgotten parts are just as important as the parts that are glorified, if not more so. I call them the Before and the After.

This story has a Before and an After as well. All stories do. This Before was about fear, and this After is about coping.

This is After.

We did not go back to the wealth of Asgard’s courts — in fact, we have not been back for years. We occasionally visit, but those visits themselves are short. Loki still has a long road to forgiveness ahead of him, but it is a road I do not mind treading. We didn’t return to live in the castle either, for the place, Loki explains, it a haunt of old memories. I understand only too well what he means.

Instead, we live our years in a long hall by a place called Franang’s Falls. It is isolated, set deep in lush forestland. The days are filled with sharp birdsong and the bellows of far-distant deer, and the nights with the heady smell of woodsmoke and starlight and fireflies.

But we cannot bury the past forever. We had to give it closure, or else I fear I’d have never found true peace of mind.

Loki and I revisited the castle only once, two weeks after we returned from Jotunheim, and as I wandered the corridors, I found the memories etched into the stonework. It bears years of old scars and anger, and now that I knew where to look, I saw evidence of Loki’s claws in the rocks, cracks in the stonework from fists and kicks, and the stain of old blood flicked upon the walls.

But we didn’t return to reminisce. We returned to set things right.

We came back to a hall bursting with the staff, and my heart swelled to see them. Plump Kokkurinn smelling of herbs and grease and woodsmoke, stout little Saumakona who was as immaculate as ever, giddy Brúðguminn trembling with excitement, and Ambátt, dear, dark and doe-eyed Ambátt, who smiled at me so kindly I felt such a rush of warmth and welcome and _home_ I could not breathe for a half second.

I was brought back to my surroundings by Þræll. He stepped forward and gave a deep bow the others echoed a half second later. “Welcome back, my lord, my lady.”

“Rise,” Loki said. They did, and Loki cleared his throat. “I am released,” he said. “I am not who I was eleven years ago, I know that. But I still hate cages, hate being pressed under the thumbs of those above me. I haven’t come back here to be locked away as I once was. The cage door is open, and shall remain so.

“Would you be set free?” Loki asked them.

The silence was the heaviest thing I have ever encountered. We stood quietly, waiting for an answer; Loki, his hands behind his back, fidgeted.

“My lord … my prince,” Þræll said, “this is … this is not a decision to be made by an individual.”

“I know. All of you here have heard my proposal,” Loki said. “I will set you free if you so wish me to. Those who do not are welcome to come with me to a new home, to serve my family.”

“My prince.” Þræll bowed again, and then, in front of our eyes, the servants vanished. They disappeared like morning mist from a field when the sun came out, and my hand crept into Loki’s.

“Now we wait,” Loki said.

And we did. Hours we waited, moving outside the castle’s walls and treading through the forests. The trees looked bigger than I remembered, perhaps because of the lack of them in Jotunheim. Some of the trees bear the three-foot high runes carved into their trunks.

“And these?” I asked, tracing around one of them.

“Old protection wards,” Loki said. “They have to be restrengthened every few years, but what I told you was true. They are old, ancient things.”

“I see.”

He came up behind me and pressed himself into my back, threading his fingers through mine and we traced the rune together. “What is it?” Loki asked me.

“ _Fehu_.”

“I’m not asking about the rune,” Loki said gently. “Something’s bothering you.”

“You said … to Þræll,” I began, “that they could be free. What does that entail?”

“I’d destroy their bonds to the castle,” Loki said. “I’d kill them.”

“Kill them?” I choked. I pulled away and turned to face him. “Why?”

“Because they are shades,” Loki said. “They are bound here, to the foundation stone that holds their _v_ _örðar_ captive. They cannot venture far from their remains.”

We stepped through the forest to the ruins we explored what seemed like a lifetime ago. We found the tree in the wall, wriggled past the blocks, and padded through the crumbling walls of stone. The faeries still infested the blocks, but when they turned their beetle eyes upon us, they only hissed and let us pass. I imagine even years later that there were fewer of them than Loki and I saw the first time, and certainly some fatter. I shuddered.

Loki summoned a flame to his hand as we came through the castle entry, walking up the stairs and turning to the right and the right again until we stood before the mosaic of Ymir. Þræll was there to meet us, his hands folded behind his back; at his feet, the floor was opened to their skeletons beneath, centred around a dark block of stone. I only saw it for a second before I had to look away.

 _Which belongs to_ _Þræll?_ was the only thing I could think. _Which to Amb_ _átt? Saumakona? Brúðguminn?_

“Prince,” Þræll said, “we have decided.”

We took the foundation stone up and to the gallery above. Loki spent hours studying it, prodding and poking and fastidiously muttering to himself his observations about every millimetre before he set a knife to it. Those whom had expressed the desire to go he released, crushing their bones for good measure. Those who didn’t stayed. The stone now sits in our hall at Franang’s Falls in a place of honour above the far fireplace and protected by every shielding enchantment Loki knows. Twelve of the servants chose to stay, including Ambátt and Kokkurinn, but the others, Þræll, Brúðguminn, and dozens more I never met, have moved on. It would be a lie to say I do not miss them terribly. The remains of the twelve who chose to stay have been buried deep, the graves marked so that if at any point they change their minds, they may too leave.

But before all the castle’s staff were released, Saumakona, who has also expressed her want to be free, requested one last thing:

“I know you have taken your husband,” she said in my ear, “but your wedding was a thing for fear, and you deserve better.”

She made me a dress seemingly stitched from snow and stardust. It was made from ivory silk and the finest of lace, of taffeta and ruffles and a thousand pieces of smoothed glass on the bodice and neckline. Silver and white were my shades that day, but the blue stone of a ring was the only splash of colour to my person. My old thing was a hairpin passed down through my family for generations of weddings, my new thing a necklace of star-diamonds, and my borrowed article a spine of interlocking solid silver antlers tracing a path down my back. I looked at myself in the mirror and thought of myself as … divinity. I was a goddess true.

My father waited for me at the long hall’s door. In his hands, he held a crown of white roses, and I bent my knees for him to place it on my head. “I was told,” he said, “to tell you that the white rose is a symbol of new beginnings and purest of love.”

“And innocence,” I replied, “and solemn ceremony.”

“Ceremony indeed.” He cupped my face and merely looked at me, his eyes shining with tears. “My baby girl….”

“Papa,” I whispered in turn.

He kissed my forehead before taking my arm in his and leading me outside.

It was misty that day, I remember, the air holding the bite of frost, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t care. I stepped barefooted up the aisle of bracken surrounded by those I loved — my sisters and my parents and those I had grown up alongside. And there were also those I had met days beforehand, those from Asgard’s courts — noble lords and ladies with proud figures and revered eyes. But my eyes were not for those I did not know — they were for one only.

Loki wore a resplendent suit of armour — heavy leather and metal that hugged his body in the best of ways. Whatever I had thought of him as he came through the doors of Laufey’s castle, this image of him was much more superior. He was not bloody and bruised, terrified and revolted, but instead seemed to cast such happiness from himself it was infectious. When my father surrendered my arm, I took Loki’s offered hand, and he whispered so softly I barely heard him, “Sigyn.”

“Loki.”

It was a quiet ceremony, a small one, and halfway through it I heard Hnoss whisper loudly over the residing official, “Sigyn looks like a princess.”

“Because she _is_ one, idiot,” Vár shot back.

“Are we princesses too, then?”

But before Vár answered, Gefjun cuffed them around the backs of their heads.

I was married with water droplets in my hair, kicked up by the crashing falls some metres away, my feet frozen with the nip, and Loki’s forehead against mine, his lips as soft as the petals in my hair. Our hands were clasped between us, the shine of our first binding cloth’s runes pearly on our skin. _You_ _’re mine_ , I had thought, as fierce and possessive as a vixen over her cubs. _Mine, my love. Fated to be mine._

At the wedding feast, as we danced almost clumsily around the floor, Loki presented me with a single, thornless rose. He twirled it between his fingers until I laughed, took the red flower from him, and kissed his cheek until Syn and Hnoss’ exaggerated choking finally pulled me away.

“It seems they are allergic to our lips on the other’s skin,” Loki murmured.

I laughed again. “Then let’s make them bed ridden.” I brought my hand to his cheek and kissed his lips. I saw Hnoss miming vomiting from the corner of my eye.

“Mmm.” Loki closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. “Bed ridden. I like the sound of that.”

When Loki took me to the bedding ceremony, he laid me amongst the furs and linen before biting at the skin between his thumb and forefinger, smearing it over the sheets. He healed himself with a quick breath of a spell before he turned his attention to me, kissing me seemingly deep enough to find and grasp to his heart every last one of my secrets.

That night was years ago, but I remember every detail vividly. That day we were happy, but we were scarred, hiding them carefully. Despite the years between us and the castle, we are different, changed in some infinitesimal way. We can never quite be the same again.

Memories of the Before plague us, and I have lost count of how many times either Loki or myself have been disturbed in our sleep, dreams clawing at our souls until we awake, sweating and screaming and scrabbling for the other. Laufey haunts my nightmares: bloody, fire twining around her body, her face distorted into gargoyle grotesqueness as my skin blackens with frostburn and scars. But my memories and dreams are nothing compared to Loki’s. For the first months, it was a nightly occurrence, and he staved off sleep for days at a time to avoid the nightmares. Now, he wakes maybe once a fortnight.

I can only try my best to help. He refuses help from Asgard, and a part of me thinks he is scared to seek healing there. That beneath his vindictive anger and stubbornness, he is afraid that he’ll be lied to again. I cannot blame him, but there are times when I want to shake him.

I try. I try so hard….

“Are you afraid?” one of us would ask when we wake, and the other would reply, “No.” It is our mantra, a grounding as effective as our curled bodies and touching lips. We drink my favourite tea — the sweet golden one with cinnamon and saffron and cardamom — and wait to greet the dawn.

But despite the nightmares and memories, the horrors that dog our steps, we are happy here, satisfied with every day of peace that rolls by. Supplies are brought to us regularly from Asgard, and smoked meats and rare spices aren’t the only things the Bifröst brings.

My sisters visit at least once a year, bringing their own families when they have married, as does Prince Thor as often as he can. And as I watch my nieces and nephews grow from infants to toddlers to young children, I mourn how I will not be able to carry children of my own whilst Loki is my husband. I know he wishes for children too, but as he told me in Utgard, we cannot. No matter how often we try, no matter how may runes of fertility we employee, or how much I believe that some miracle will descend on us, my womb remains empty.

It is a pain I cannot soothe in Loki’s heart. I have lost count for how many times he has wept and raged over his, as he says, inadequacy, a pain particularly felt as he watches beside me my sisters’ children and his brother’s. I feel like a spectator, helpless as I see Loki despair and despise himself night after night. I feel like no matter how many times I tell him forgive him, that I love him exactly how he is, it doesn’t quieten the daemons in his mind. Sometimes, when I wake in the night with tears on my cheeks, I can feel Loki shuddering with his own against my back. It was after one of those nights that he suggested I leave him so I may find another to grant me what I want, but I had shouted him down almost at once. I would be a poor spouse indeed if I left him for something that was not his fault, nor mine. And I simply love him too much to leave him.

I am in bed now, mulling over these memories before a familiar weight settles on the other side of the bed. I turn over, sighing with utter content as I meet Loki’s green eyes — I have not gazed upon his jotun skin for years; decades, really. I had asked once, and once only; he had not spoken to me for several hours after the request.

“I’d thought you’d be asleep,” he murmurs, tucking an errant strand of hair behind my ear.

I move closer to him, burying my nose into his chest and closing my eyes. “I can’t sleep without you at my back,” I reply, equally soft as I trace his chest. “That is entirely your fault.”

“My fault,” Loki muses, shivering under my fingers.

“Entirely.”

But no matter what I feel, what he feels, sleep has rarely been kind to Loki for long. He has a nightmare in the early morning hours, the furs and sheets twisting around his legs and magic flaring in his fingers. A scream is trapped in his throat when I wake, grasping his shoulder when I realise what’s happening and I shake him. “Loki! My love, my love.”

His eyes snap open and he draws in a gasp of a breath before letting it go, his chest jumping and eyes roving over the ceiling. His hands clench tightly at the bedding, and he only begins to relax when he sees me.

I wrap my arms around him, rubbing circles into his back. “Are you afraid?”

He hugs me back hesitantly after a second, burying his face into my shoulder. “Yes,” he whispers brokenly. “Yes….”

 _Oh Norns_ _…._ “Hey, shhh…. I’m here, I’m safe. You’re safe. Everyone is well.”

Loki licks his lips and says, “Are you thirsty?”

We get up, dragging the furs from the bed around our shoulders and opening the bedroom door. Torches burn low in their brackets along the hall, and we pass them in silence, heading towards the far door. It’s still dark outside, but Ambátt is awake, the kettle already in the heart of the single living fireplace. No matter how many years that have gone past for me to grow used to this, it still leaves me with a slight chill to see the evidence of how closely Loki is bound to Ambátt and her to him.

“Five minutes, my prince,” she says. Loki nods, groping blindly for the door’s handle. When he finds it, he stumbles outside to the wicker seats a little way along the veranda. I follow him and curl myself up next to him on the seat, tucking my feet under me and wrapping my arms around his shoulders. It is the dark of the predawn, and the slither of dead leaves is loud in our ears. We are silent as Ambátt comes out, tray in hand, and she pours us tea when she sets the tray on a low table. Loki and I each take a cup, and she disappears back inside.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, and Loki shakes his head.

I put my hand over his. “I’ll be here to talk if you change your mind.” I look away, pretending not to notice how his hands tremble around his cup as he curls in his seat, pulling the furs tight around his shoulders.

I dwell on the dawn as I brush my hair later, catching a glimpse of Ambátt out of the corner of my eye as she stacks the firewood beside the grate.

“Am I foolish?” I ask.

“My lady?” She turns to look at me, puzzlement in her eyes.

“Am I foolish to leave Loki be as I do?” I continue. “That I don’t push him to help himself more?”

“There are arguments to be made for both sides of the case,” Ambátt says, abandoning the wood as she comes up behind me. She gently takes the hairbrush from my hand and begins running it through my hair. “Some would argue it a foolish thing to leave him to his own devices to heal,” she says, “but what works for some does not work for others, and what does not work for others works for some. I will not pretend to know of all the problems that lie unsaid between you, my lady, but from what I have seen and that I am permitted to speak my mind on, I do not think you foolish. I trust you to know what is best for His Highness, and I know that you are doing right by him. I have not seen him as happy as he is now since I met him. He will heal on his own, my lady, but only if you are there to guide him, if you are strong for him. You are his foundation, my lady. Without you, he is building on sand.”

I say nothing, fiddling with my fingers.

Ambátt pins my hair up and rests her hands on my shoulders, squeezing them slightly. “Do not take his faults and lay the blame for them at your own feet,” she says. “Sweet girl.”

I give a choke of a laugh, threading my fingers through hers still on my shoulder and squeezing her hand back.

* * *

I find them one day when I am collecting firewood, four months after the night Loki and I sat outside. A cry startles me, and I almost drop the branches in my arms. “Hello?” I whisper to the snow laden forest.

The only answer I receive is the soft cry once again. A baby’s cry.

Travellers don’t often come near here, and never in the deep winter, and so when the cries do not taper off long after they should have, when they should have been carried well out of earshot, I follow them. I am curious. Not many would pitch camp in these woods even if the weather was good. They know of who and what Loki is, and many wish to see him gone. What makes these travellers so different? Do they not listen to gossip? I have a hot flask of tea in my satchel, and I pull it out, thinking to offer some to these travellers. More than likely they’re lost, sitting only a minute to rest.

Soon, I come to the clearing from which the baby’s cries echo. But there is no fire, no sign of anyone. I frown, puzzled, hefting my sticks under one arm and my flask in my other hand. But then I see them, laying at the foot of a great pine tree. There are two of them huddled tightly in rough-spun blankets in a wicker basket. Babies. Twins. The both of them have a dusting of fire-bright red hair, and their cheeks are burnt pink with cold. I stumble to the basket and pick them both up, pulling them out and wrapping them tightly in my cloak. The flask and firewood lie abandoned as I race back home, shouting for Loki and Ambátt.

Loki barrels out of the door just as I emerge from the treeline, alarm in every part of his body as his eyes dart around the forest, searching for a threat. “Sigyn?” he asks when I’m close enough, worried.

I stumble onto the veranda, still holding the twins close to me. “I found them,” I choke. “There was no one there, they’d been abandoned.”

“‘Them’?” But I know he has caught on, for his eyes are on the bundles.

I loosen my grip on them as Ambátt comes outside, a ladle in hand. “My lady?”

“Help me,” I say to her. “Hold one.”

Ambátt drops the ladle and swiftly takes one of the babies from me.

Loki reaches forward and touches the twin’s head I still hold. The baby twists in its blankets, whimpering a little, and Loki jerks back at once.

“No, no,” I whisper, grabbing his wrist firmly. “They’re frightened, they miss their mother. It’s alright. Try again.”

Loki’s shaking when he lays the very tips of his fingers on the baby’s head, but when it reacts no further, he soon rests his palm on its head.

“Inside,” Ambátt says. “Come.”

He are herded inside to the fire. The baby I hold has opened its eyes. They are the blue of a newborn’s, and I wonder then how old they are; a few weeks at most, a few days at least.

“You found them?” Loki asks after a few minutes.

I can only nod. “I heard them crying,” I say. “And when I saw them … I couldn’t leave them.”

“Of course not,” Loki says. “There was no one? No footprints, even?”

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

Loki hisses under his breath, and he hugs himself, leaning his elbows on his knees when Ambátt comes back with an armful of furs.

The twins are boys, but they aren’t identical. When they are laid close, they cling to the other with an obvious familiarity. We stay with them all day, discussing what to do.

“We have to try reunite them with at least one parent,” Loki says.

“I … I know,” I reply. An idea had sparked in my mind soon after I returned, an idea that seems almost impossible. The answer to our problems.

“The sun’ll be setting soon,” Loki says. “We should rise at dawn; get in a full day of searching.”

I nod in agreement, though my gut twists. No, it wouldn’t be fair to the parents.

We search for days for the mother or father, hiking through the forests with the babies wrapped snuggly in furs upon our backs. But we find no one, and no one in turn comes looking for them. After two weeks of fruitless searching, we give up. I didn’t want to believe they had been abandoned, but now that the truth of the matter becomes clear, I set my mind on my first course.

I work the courage up to ask him when we lay in bed that night. It has taken me so long because this dream feels as delicate as a soap bubble, to be popped as soon as I give it voice. “We should keep them,” I say, looking at the new crib next to the fire. I refuse to look at Loki, and I hope he can see how stubbornly I have put my heart on the idea in the set of my shoulders.

“What?”

“The boys. We should keep them.”

“We can’t,” Loki says.

“Why not? Their mother doesn’t want them and we … nothing’s working; you said it would never work. And you want them just as badly as I do. Loki, don’t you see?” I cup his face. “The Norns have answered us, but just not in a way we expected.”

He is quiet.

“Please,” I whisper. “Please….” My heart aches.

“What will their names be?” he asks.

I leap on him, hugging him tightly and crying into his shoulder. Happiness bursts in my heart, and he hugs me back just as fiercely.

“They will know of their parentage,” he says, adamant. “They _will_ know. I … I can’t have them living the lie I once did.”

“Of course,” I say at once. “Of course.”

“And their names?”

I let go of him and rise from the bed. Loki follows me, and we stand over the crib, watching the brothers sleep. I trace one’s cheek, and whisper, “He shall be Váli, and his brother … His brother shall be Narfi.”

Loki hums his approval and asks, “Is there any particular reason for those names?”

“They were the names of two boys I grew up next to,” I say. “We were great friends before they moved away from their farm.” I pick Váli up, and he squirms sleepily in my arms before he settles again, snoring softly. I run my fingers through his hair, bouncing him on my hip. Loki picks Narfi up, setting his chin on the baby’s back and purring — something he still does at my request, a compromise for the oath we have sworn that he should never feel pressured to change his skin. Narfi snuggles into the vibrations of his throat, yawning, before he opens his eyes, and his small hands tangle themselves in Loki’s hair.

Loki’s nose wrinkles, and his own eyes water. “We should call him ‘Hair-puller’,” he mutters. I have to hide my snort of amusement in Váli’s hair.

No, I think, as Loki delicately pulls Narfi’s tiny fingers from his hair one at a time, this will not be the same as carrying my own children, but we can make it work. Of course we can. We will both grow to love these children as if they were indeed our own flesh and blood. I can already feel something curling around my heart.

_It will work._

* * *

There are those who will call this a love story, but it isn’t. Those who say that this is a love story are only selling a line. This is a love story, yes, but it is also a story of fear. It is a story of uncertainty, of promises kept and broken, of turmoil, of tragedy, of the accident of birth. It is a story about lies and trickery and letting go. It is a story about being good enough.

The journey has not been easy, full of ‘the’s and ‘of’s, but the bonds it has forged are ones of iron. For now, and I hope forever more, I know that I am content. Let the storms come, for we will weather them. Let the hardships batter against our barriers, for we will prevail. Always.

This story of mine is at an end now, and I do not want my next one to be so full of darkness. But the story of the girl and the monster that swept her away began the same as the one Loki described for me as we stood before a mosaic, and I like to think that remnants of that story are reflected in our own lives because it in itself built the universe from nothing.

In the beginning, between frost and flame, there was a yawning darkness. But when these two opposite forces met, they created something that was far more powerful than the darkness.

For after the beginning, after the very start of existence, there was light.

## THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot tell you how satisfying it is the finally write 'The End'. This has been a wonderful experience in writing not only in first person, but in the world of feedback and followers I have gathered since Chapter One. Thank you for making the journey one worth treading, for tagging me in art and videos and photosets that reminded you of the story (all of which can be found under my 'fidnftd inspiration' tag on Tumblr), and I hope you'll stay around to see me if, and when, I decide to publish any more fic.
> 
> [Follow my Tumblr.](http://englishbutter.tumblr.com/)


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